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iRifiv.  Abram  J.  Ryan.  Taken  from  uis  Latest  Photograph. 


POEMS; 

Patriotic,  Religious, 

MISCELLANEOUS. 

BY 

Abram  J.  Ryan, 

(Father  Ryan.) 


CONTAINING  HIS  POSTHUMOUS  POEMS 

With  an  Introductory  Essay  by  Key.  John  Talbot  Smith, 
AND  AN  Appreciation  by  John  Moran. 


TWENTY  SEVENTH  EDITION 


“All  Rests  with  those  who  Read.  A work  or  thought 
Is  what  each  makes  it  to  himself,  and  may 
Be  full  of  great  dark  meanings,  like  the  sea, 

With  shoals  of  life  rushing;  or  like  the  air, 
Benighted  with  the  wing  of  the  wild  dove, 

Sweeping  miles  broad  o’er  the  far  southwestern  woods 
With  mighty  glimpses  of  the  central  light- 
er may  be  nothing— bodiless,  spiritless.” 

— Festus. 


P.  J.  KENEDY  AND  SONS 

^ ^ ^ NEW  YORK 


1880,  BY  Abram  J. 


Fll 


REMOTE  STORAG 


mms 

SIMPLE  RHYMES 

are  laid  as  a garland  of  LOV. 

AT  THE  FEET  OF  HIS  MOTHER  BY 
HER  CHILD^  THE 
AUTHOR^ 

c 

J ■ 

cf^ 


V) 


> 


PREFACE. 


These  Verses  (which  some  friends  call  by  the  higher  title 
of  Poems — to  which  appellation  the  author  objects,)  were 
written  at  random — off  and  on,  here,  there,  anywhere — just 
when  the  mood  came,  with  little  of  study  and  less  of  art,  and 
always  in  a hurry. 

Hence  they  are  incomplete  in  finish,  as  the  author  is;  tho* 
he  thinks  they  are  true  in  tone.  His  feet  know  more  of  the 
humble  steps  that  lead  up  to  the  Altar  and  its  Mysteries  than 
of  the  steeps  that  lead  up  to  Parnassus  and  the  Home  of  the 
Muses.  And  souls  were  always  more  to  him  than  songs.  But 
still,  somehow — and  he  could  not  tell  why — he  sometimes  tried 
to  sing.  Here  are  his  simple  songs.  He  never  dreamed  of  taking 
even  lowest  place  in  the  rank  of  authors.  But  friends  persisted; 
and,  finally,  a young  lawyer  friend,  who  has  entire  charge  of  his 
business  in  the  book,  forced  him  to  front  the  world  and  its 
critics.  There  are  verses  connected  with  the  war  published  in 
this  volume,  not  for  harm-sake,  nor  for  hate-sake,  but  simply 
because  the  author  wrote  them.  He  would  write  again  in  the 
same  tone  and  key,  under  the  same  circumstances.  No  more 
need  be  said,  except  that  these  verses  mirror  the  mind  of 


THE  AUTHOH. 


BUSKERS’  Preface  to  the  Second  Edition. 


For  years  the  name  of  Father  Kyan  has  been  a household 
word.  It  is  known  wherever  the  English  language  is  spoken, 
and  everywhere  it  is  reverenced  as  the  appellation  of  a true 
child  of  song.  It  is  especially  dear  to  the  people  of  the  South, 
among  whom  he  who  bears  it  has  lived  and  worked  and  touched 
his  tuneful  harp. 

These,  his  poems,  have  moved  multitudes.  They  have  thrilled 
the  soldier  on  the  eve  of  battle,  and  quickened  the  martial 
impulses  of  a chivalric  race ; they  have  soothed  the  soul- wounds 
of  the  suffering;  and  they  have  raised  the  hearts  of  men  in 
adoration  and  benediction  to  the  great  Father  of  all. 

When  the  announcement  was  first  made  that  they  were  to 
be  gathered  together  into  a volume,  the  news  was  heard  as  glad 
tidings  by  the  friends  of  the  poet-priest,  and  the  book  had 
hardly  appeared  when  the  edition  was  exhausted.  The  ablest 
critics  were  generous  in  their  praise  of  it,  and  predicted  that  it 
would  be  for  its  author  a monument  more  enduring  than  brass. 

This  edition  has  been  revised,  amended,  and  enriched  by  the 
addition  of  several  poems  not  printed  in  the  first  collection. 
Thus  improved,  it  is  offered  to  the  public  by 


THE  PUBLISHERS. 


Publishers’  Preface  to  the  Twelfth  Edition. 


The  publication  of  the  poems  of  Father  Kyan  has  reached 
the  twelfth  edition.  To  the  Memoir,  which  found  place  in 
the  eleventh  edition,  are  now  added  many  beautiful  songs, 
some  of  which  have  not  heretofore  been  published;  and  also 
many  new  illustrations. 

So  popular  have  the  writings  of  the  poet-priest  become, 
that  many  songs  and  ballads  have  been  printed  as  emanations 
of  his  pen  for  which  he  was  not  responsible. 

This  edition  is  printed  from  new  electrotype  plates,  and  is 
greatly  improved  in  style  over  all  former  editions.  It  in- 
cludes all  the  poems  written  by  Father  Ryan  which,  if  living, 
he  would  offer  to  the  public. 

His  death  in  1886  stilled  the  sweetest  voice  that  ever  was 
raised  in  behalf  of  the  faith  and  clime  he  loved  so  well. 


THE  PUBLISHERS. 


FATHER  RYAN’S  POEMS 

Thirteenth  Edition). 


BY  JOHN  TALBOT  SMITH. 


The  successive  editions  of  this  volume  are  a popular  tribute 
to  the  poetic  genius  of  Father  Ryan,  and  indicate  clearly  the 
hold  his  poetry  has  taken  upon  the  affections  of  the  Catholic 
body,  and  at  least  the  Southern  portion  of  the  community,  with 
whose  ante-bellum  sentiments  he  had  deep  sympathy  always. 
From  Catholics  and  Southerners  his  poems  have  received  praise 
unstinted,  and  criticism  without  discrimination.  The  literary 
cliques  which  rule  the  English-speaking  book  world  have  not 
noticed  them.  These  cliques  rarely  understand  Catholic  poetry, 
and  never  examine  literary  work  which  does  not  come  before 
them  through  the  ordinary  channels  of  influence  or  patronage. 
Hence  their  favorable  judgment  may  mean  as  little  as  their  con- 
demnation or  indifference.  It  is  surely  a favorable  sign  when 
the  people  take  up  a poet’s  cause  against  neglectful  or  incom- 
petent critics.  They  did  this  service  to  Longfellow  when  the 
literary  cliqnes  were  bent  on  forcing  Bryant  and  Emerson  into 
public  favor.  Time  has  given  judgment  against  tne  critics 
In  Longfellow’s  case.  The  readers  and  admirers  of  Ryan’s 
poetry  are  unconsciously  supporting  the  cause  of  the  poet  priest 
by  their  steady  demand  for  new  editions  of  his  poems.  Popu- 
larity does  not,  of  course,  stamp  any  work  with  the  character- 
istics of  truth  and  beauty  ; it  lends  no  splendor  to  verse,  no 
force  to  reasoning,  no  grace  to  fancy.  The  worst  books,  both 
in  form  and  substance,  are  often  most  popular ; and  very  com- 


Father  Fyan^s  Poems. 


xii 

monplace  writers  enjoy  great  renown  in  their  day.  Popularity 
in  Father  Ryan’s  case  is,  however,  an  index  to  the  strength  of 
popular  feeling  in  his  regard.  It  has  survived  his  death  many 
years,  and  lived  without  the  nursing  of  interested  friends  and 
publishers,  in  spite  of  the  heavy  indifference  of  the  Catholic 
ihajority  to  their  own  writers.  It  warrants  a fair  inquiry  from 
the  competent  critic  into  the  merits  of  a volume  which  has  con- 
tinued to  interest  people  under  circumstances  so  fatal  to  interest. 

The  admirers  of  Father  Ryan  would  naturally  like  to  hear 
from  the  critics.  They  value  the  standard  of  criticism  set  up 
by  the  passing  literary  crowd— a standard  which  has  condescend- 
ingly admitted  Tennyson,  Longfellow,  and  a few  other  celebri- 
ties into  its  own  little  temples,  and  is  willing  to  illustrate  its 
canons  by  quotations  from  ‘‘  In  Memoriam”  and  “ Evangeline.’’ 
They  are  tired,  too,  of  the  language  of  adulation  and  compli- 
ment. It  does  not  advance  a poet’s  reputation  to  declare  repeat- 
edly that  his  name  will  echo  down  the  ages,  influence  the  nations 
to  come,  and  dazzle  posterity  with  the  brilliance  of  its  syllables. 
These  glories  may  one  day  cluster  about  his  work  deservedly. 
The  prophecy  of  them,  not  mentioning  its  uselessness  and  bad 
tf^ste,  adds  nothing  to  a man’s  worth  or  to  the  pleasure  of  his 
admirers.  True  criticism,  impartial,  intelligent,  dispassionate, 
is  more  relished,  even  if  it  takes  a mortal  out  of  the  clouds  and 
puts  him  on  a pedestal  three  feet  high.  Such  criticism  the  ad- 
mirers of  Father  Ryan  would  like  to  see  the  poet-priest  receive, 
to  take  the  place  of  complimentary  verbiage.  They  may  have 
long  to  wait.  The  critics  are  not  rid  of  their  drowsiness  and 
insincerity  toward  Catholic  writers,  and  wake  up  only  when  a 
gun  like  the  “ Apologia”  of  Newman  goes  off  at  their  ears. 

Father  Abram  Ryan  would  certainly  fa^e  ill  at  their  hands, 
not  being  one  of  the  lucky  poets  whose  name  will  resound  in 
human  society  a thousand  years  hence.  He  himself  called  his 
poems  ” verses,”  and  was  satisfied  to  think  they  might  be  ‘‘  true 
in  tone,”  though  written  at  random — off  and  on,  here,  there, 
anywhere — just  when  the  mood  came,  with  little  of  study  and 


Fattier  RyarCs  Poems. 


xin 


less  of  art,  and  always  in  a hurry/'  This  confession  makes  the 
work  of  a friendly  critic  less  difficult.  Poetry  written  in  this 
fashion  will  necessarily  make  no  claim  to  superlatives  in  descrip- 
tion and  criticism.  Father  Ryan  never  made  poetry  his  voca- 
tion, as  did  Tennyson  and  Longfellow.  He  remained  from  first 
to  last  the  priest  of  the  mission,  with  aspirations  for  souls  far 
beyond  his  energies.  His  poems  are  the  simplest  of  songs,  and 
their  chief  quality  is  that  they  touch  the  heart.  An  atmosphere 
of  melancholy  and  longing,  of  weariness  and  suffering  veils  their 
meaning  from  the  gaze  of  the  practical  mind.  Religious  feel- 
ing is  dominant.  The  reader  seems  to  be  moving  about  in 
cathedral  glooms,  by  dimly -lighted  altars,  with  sad  processions 
of  ghostly  penitents  and  mourners  fading  into  the  darkness  to 
the  sad  music  of  lamenting  choirs.  But  the  light  which  falls 
upon  the  gloom  is  the  light  of  heaven,  and  amid  tears  and  sighs 
over  farewells  and  crushed  happinesses  hope  sings  a vigorous 
though  subdued  strain.  The  religious  and  melancholy  tone  of 
these  poems  is  one  reason  of  their  general  popularity. 

Father  R3^an  had  the  essential  gifts  of  the  true  poet.  The 
indications  are  that,  had  he  exercised  his  powers  to  their  utmost, 
another  American  poet  would  have  shared  the  laurels  of  Poe. 
The  poetic  spirit,  the  poetic  mind,  and  the  vivid  expression  that 
is  born  of  these  were  his  to  a high  degree.  He  had  the  uncon- 
trollable, divine  impulse  to  sing  the  emotions  of  his  soul ; his 
mental  grasp  took  in  the  existences  of  time  and  eternity,  the 
wondrous  relationships  of  man  with  the  Creator  and  with  his 
own  kind  ; and  his  voice  uttered  the  soul's  thought  musically, 
often  with  unusual  grace  and  power.  His  poems  as  a whole 
show  rather  what  he  was  capable  of  than  any  particular  excel- 
lence. Some  of  his  sentences  were  admirable  in  tlieir  vivid 
power. 

**  I saw  Night 

Digging  the  grave  of  Day  ; 

And  Day  took  off  her  golden  crown. 

And  fiung  it  sorrowfully  down. 


XIV 


Father  Ry art’s  Poems. 


On  the  dim  high  altar  of  the  dark, 

Stars,  one  by  one. 

Far,  faintly  shone  ; 

The  moonlight  trembled  like  a mother's  smile 
Upon  our  bark." 

“ The  brook  that  down  the  valley 
So  musically  drips. 

Flowed  never  half  so  brightly 
As  the  light  laugh  from  her  lips." 

“ The  flower  which  Bethlehem  saw  bloom 
Out  of  a heart  all  full  of  grace. 

Gave  never  forth  its  full  perfume 
Until  the  cross  became  its  vase." 

“ Wherever  the  brave  have  died. 

They  should  not  rest  apart ; 

Living,  they  struggle  side  by  side. 

Why  should  the  hand  of  death  divide 
A single  heart  from  heart  ?" 

Its  mist  of  green  o’er  battle  plain 
. . . Spring  had  breathed. " 

And  many  a flower  was  blooming  there 
In  beauty,  yet  without  a name, 

Like  humble  hearts  that  often  bear 
The  gifts,  but  not  the  palm  of  fame." 

“ The  surest  way  to  God 
Is  up  the  lonely  stream  of  tears." 

The  dials  of  earth  may  show 
The  length,  not  the  depth  of  years  ; 

Few  or  many  they  come,  few  or  many  they  go, 
But  time  is  best  measured  by  tears." 


Better  a day  of  strife  than  a century  of  sleep." 


Father  Fyan^  s Poems, 


XV 


“ Life  is  a burden— bear  it ; 

Life  is  a duty — dare  it ; 

Life  is  a thorn  crown — wear  it.’* 

All  the  light  hath  left  the  skies, 

And  the  living,  awe-struck  crowds 
See  above  them  only  clouds. 

And  around  them  only  shrouds.” 

These  quotations  are  taken  at  random  from  his  poems,  and 
can  be  multiplied  at  pleasure.  They  prove  his  genius.  Ele- 
gance and  correctness  of  expression  always  followed  his  most 
forceful  thought.  Such  poems  as  the  ‘‘  Song  of  the  Mystic,” 
“ De  Profundis,”  ” The  March  of  the  Deathless  Dead,”  “ Sen- 
tinel Songs,”  “ Tears,”  and  “ The  Prince  Imperial”  indicate 
the  possession  of  that  half -prophetic  spirit  which  to  the  true 
poet  is  never  denied.  The  Catholic  and  the  priest  should  pos- 
sess it  in  tenfold  strength.  Faith  and  doctrine  in  such  a one 
should  combine  to  give  his  sibylline  utterances  a horizon  ex- 
tending far  around  the  future.  In  addition  to  those  mentioned 
above,  his  most  perfect  poems  are  the  lines  ‘ ‘ In  Memory  of  my 
Brother,”  a hymn  to  “ The  Sacred  Heart,”  the  lyrics  “ Rest” 
and  ” The  Rosary  of  my  Tears,  ” a narrative  poem,  ‘‘  Their  Story 
Runneth  Thus,”  and  a “Nocturne.”  In  these  twelve  poems 
his  poetic  powers  are  at  their  best.  Graceful  and  even  brilliant 
expression,  melodious  verse,  deep  and  true  emotion,  touching 
sentiment,  powerful  imagery,  condensed  utterance,  and  beneath 
all  the  smouldering  fire  whose  heavings  and  fiashings  tell  of  fierce 
restraint  upon  the  poet’s  soul  lest  extravagance  mar  perfect  art 
—all  these  forces  help  to  mould  the  best  work  of  Father  Ryan. 

It  is  to  be  regretted  that  he  did  not  always  subject  his  muse 
to  the  rigid  discipline  whose  wholesome  guidance  produced  re- 
sults so  pleasing.  This  discipline  of  self-knowledge,  study,  and 
art  confines  the  waters,  rushing  from  poetic  springs,  to  one  safe 
channel,  from  the  source  to  the  sea  ; and  thereby  gives  us  a 
graceful  river  where  a hundred  straggling  streams,  scattering 


XVI 


Father  FyarCs  Poems, 


over  the  land,  might  have  ended  their  inglorious  lives  in  a 
marsh.  Father  Ryan  had  greater  poetic  genius  than  Lowell ; 
but  the  art  of  the  latter  was  masterly,  his  talents  were  culti- 
vated to  the  utmost,  and  his  achievement  is  so  great  that  com- 
parison is  impossible. 

Father  Ryan  must  stand  by  himself  as  a singer  for  compari- 
son ; any  attempt  to  give  him  a pedestal  with  other  poets  would 
be  fruitless.  This  he  understood  himself. 

“ I sing  with  a voice  too  low 
To  be  heard  beyond  to-day, 

In  minor  keys  of  my  people’s  woes. 

But  my  songs  pass  away. 

To-morrow  hears  them  not— 

To  morrow  belongs  to  fame  ; 

My  songs,  like  the  birds’,  will  be  forgot, 

And  forgotten  shall  be  my  name.” 

There  can  be  no  doubt  that  he  will  live  long  in  the  affection 
of  the  people,  since 

Betimes 

The  grandest  songs  depart, 

While  the  gentle,  humble,  and  low-toned  rhymes 
Will  echo  from  heart  to  heart.” 

It  was  his  one  great  power  to  speak  from  the  heart,  and  to 
wake  such  melodies  as  catch  the  common  ear  and  stir  ‘‘the 
fount  of  tears.”  No  eye  can  withhold  its  tribute  when  the  sad 
chant  of  the  “ De  Profundis”  rises.  Every  page  of  his  one 
book  has  a verse  or  a stanza  to  touch  the  heart.  Greater  popu- 
larity will  be  yet  granted  to  his  poems,  and  it  is  pleasant  to  feel 
that  he  deserves  more  even  than  will  fall  to  his  share.  As  long 
as  his  poems  are  read  they  will  exert  a noble  influence  in  behalf 
of  the  soul-life  so  neglected,  so  steadily  denied  in  our  day. 
They  breathe  the  perfume  of  religion.  Whatever  else  may  be 
said  of  Abram  Ryan,  in  his  poems  he  was  truly  the  priest,  the 
teacher,  the  inspirer  of  lofty  love  for  truth  and  duty. 

To  distinguish  between  his  artistic  success  and  his  popU' 


Father  Fycm^s  Poems. 


xvii 


larity  must  not  be  forgotten.  The  elements  of  his  popu- 
larity are  not  difficult  to  name.  Religious  feeling  is  the  first. 
Devotion  to  Christ  and  Mary,  His  mother,  the  priest’s  awe, 
wonder,  and  love  for  the  mass  and  the  sacraments,  the  enthu- 
siasm of  the  mystic  for  the  mysterious  of  religion,  are  the  most 
fruitful  sources  of  his  inspirations.  His  choice  of  subjects  is 
mostly  personal,  peculiar  to  the  priest,  the  missionary,  the 
patriot,  the  pilgrim  weary  of  the  world,  broken  in  health  and 
spirit,  eager  for  the  perfect  life.  He  sings  in  the  minor  key, 
quickest  to  reach  the  hearts  of  men,  surest  to  touch  the  mind 
and  the  heart  of  the  multitude,  easiest  to  sound,  the  key  in 
which  simple  nations  compose  even  the  music  of  their  dances. 
His  expression  is  simple  and  vigorous,  and  he  has  no  fear  of 
repetition.  He  speaks  from  his  own  heart  to  the  hearts  of 
others.  Behind  these  elements  is  the  true  poetic  genius  upon 
which  his  worth  and  his  popularity  rest  together. 

Hence,  it  happens  that  the  most  critical  can  turn  from  the 
brilliant  stanzas  of  Tennyson  to  the  simple  poems  of  Ryan  with- 
out depression,  and  for  the  sake  of  the  clear  voice,  pure  melody, 
and  strong  thought  can  forget  the  hasty  composition.  There  is 
no  impatience  over  his  deficiencies,  only  regret.  When  the 
poets  of  culture  trip  in  their  rhythm  hymning  the  pagan  gods 
and  all  things  save  the  Christian,  we  condemn  them  without 
mercy.  Their  only  merit  is  fidelity  to  the  rules  of  poetic  com- 
position, and  treason  means  death.  Father  Ryan  does  not  train 
with  these  persons.  They  cannot  compare  with  him,  and  their 
fame  beside  his  is  pitiful.  It  is  not  such  as  they  who  will  one 
day  gently  overshadow  his  place  in  the  hearts  of  men.  That 
place  will  be  his  until  another  of  the  same  faith  and  equal 
genius,  trained  in  the  art  and  discipline  of  the  schools,  and  ac- 
quainted with  his  own  powers,  shall  strike  the  lyre  with  firm 
and  practised  hand,  sending  forth  a strain  whose  simplicity, 
truth,  and  sweetness  shall  win  the  heart,  while  its  consummate 
art  shall  answer  the  demands  of  criticism. 

New  York,  January,  1894. 


V 


CONTENTS, 


% 


Soxa  OF  THE  Mystig^  • 
Reverie,  - • - 

TjINES— 1875,  • • • 

A Memory,  - - - 

Rhyme,  - - - - 

Nocturne,  - • - 

The  Old  Year  and  the  New, 
Erin’s  Flag, 

THE  Sword  of  Robert  Lee, 

Life,  - - - 

A Laugh—and  a Moan, 

In  Memory  op  My  Brother, 

**  Out  of  the  Depths/*  - 
A Thought, 

March  op  the  Deathless  Dead, 
Reunited,  - - - 

A Memory,  - - - 

At  Last,  - - . 

A Land  Without  Ruins, 
Memories,  - - - 

The  Prayer  of  the  South, 

Feast  of  the  Assumption,  - 
Sursum  Corda,  - - « 

A Child’s  Wish, 

Presentiment,  - ^ • 


PAGE. 

- 35 
38 

- 42 
45 

- 47 
62 

- 67 
60 

- 63 
65 
68 
71 

- 73 
75 

- 76 
78 

- 81 
88 

- 90 
91 

- 93 

97 

- 109 
104 

- 106 


(xix) 


XX 


Contents, 


TAQTU 


Last  of  May,  - • • 

4» 

- 

- 

108 

“Gone,’*  - - - 

- 

- 

- 

- 

113 

Feast  of  the  sacred  Heart, 

- 

- 

- 

111 

IN  Memory  of  Very  Eev.  J.  B.  Etienne, 

- 

- 

- 

117 

Tears,  - , - - 

- 

- 

- 

lU 

Lines  (Two  Loves), 

• 

- 

- 

- 

121 

The  Land  We  Love, 

- 

- 

- 

122 

In  Memoriam,  - - - 

- 

- 

- 

- 

123 

Reverie,  - - - - 

- 

- 

- 

121 

I Often  Wonder  Why  ’Tis  So,  - 

- 

- 

- 

- 

128 

A Blessing,  - - - - 

- 

- 

- 

130 

July  9th,  1872,  - - - 

- 

- 

- 

- 

133 

WAKE  Me  a Song,  - - - 

- 

- 

• 

136 

IN  Memoriam— DAVID  J.  Ryan,  C.  S.  A., 

- 

- 

- 

- 

137 

What?  (To  Ethel),  - - - 

- 

- 

- 

112 

The  Master’s  Voice, 

- 

- 

- 

- 

141 

A “ Thought-Flower,** 

- 

• 

• 

117 

A Death,  - - - 

• 

- 

- 

119 

The  Rosary  of  My  Tears,  - 

- 

- 

- 

152 

Death,  - 

• 

- 

- 

- 

154 

What  Ails  the  World, 

m 

- 

- 

156 

A Thought,  - - - 

- 

- 

- 

- 

159 

In  Rome,  - - - • 

- 

- 

- 

163 

AFTER  Sickness, 

- 

• 

. 

- 

166 

Old  Trees,  • 

- 

- 

- 

169 

After  Seeing  Pius  IX,  - 

- 

• 

- 

170 

Sentinel  Songs,  - - • 

- 

- 

- 

171 

Fragments  from  an  Epic  Poem, 

- 

- 

- 

- 

185 

Lake  Como,  - - • • 

- 

- 

- 

201 

“Peace!  Be  Still,** 

- 

* 

- 

208 

Good  Friday,  - • w 

* 

- 

210 

My  Beads,  - - ^ 

• 

- 

- 

211 

At  Night,  . - • « 

*. 

213 

Nocturne,  • • 

m 

- 

217 

Sunless  Days, 

<c» 

- 

220 

OontmUs, 


XXI 


A Beveeie, 

St.  Mary’s,  - 
De  Profundis,  - 
When?  (Death), 

The  Conquered  Banner, 

A Christmas  Chant, 

“ Far  Away,”  - 
Listen, 

Wrecked, 

Breaming,  - 
A Thought, 

“ Yesterdays,” 

To-Days,” 

“ To-Morrows,” 
Inevitable, 

Sorrow  and  the  Flowers, 
Hope,  - 

Farewells, 

Song  of  the  Eiyeb, 
Dreamland, 

Lines,  » - - 

A Song, 

Parting, 

St.  Stephen, 

A Flower’s  Song, 

The  Star’s  Song, 

Death  of  the  Flower,  - 
Singing-Bird, 

Now,  - - - 

M * * *,  - 
God  in  the  Night, 

Poets, 

A Legend, 

Thoughts,  - 

LiNE^  - ^ . 


PAGE 

- 221 
222 
225 
229 

- 232 
235 

• 262 
264 

- 261 
267 

- 269 
270 

- 271 
272 

- 276 
279 

- 285 
287 

- 288 
290 

- 292 
293 

- 296 
297 

- 301 
302 

- 304 
306 

• 308 
311 

» 315 
318 

- 321 
324 

- 326 


xxii  Oonten^a. 


PAGE. 

C.  S.  A.,  ^ 

- 

• 

328 

The  Seen  and  the  Unseen, 

- 

- 

- 

- 

330 

Passing  Away, 

- 

- 

- 

- 

334 

The  Pilgrim  (a  Christmas  Legend  for  Children), 

- 

336 

A Reverie,  - - - 

- 

- 

- 

- 

347 

THEIR  Story  Runneth  Thus, 

- 

- 

- 

351 

Night  After  the  Picnic, 

- 

. 

- 

- 

38- 

Lines,  - - - - 

- 

. 

• 

388 

Death  of  the  Prince  Imperial, 

- 

- 

- 

390 

In  Memoriam  (Father  Keeler),  - 

- 

- 

- 

- 

394 

Mobile  Mystic  Societies, 

- 

- 

- 

401 

Rest,  _ - - - 

- 

- 

- 

- 

404 

Follow  Mb, 

- 

- 

- 

- 

406 

The  Poet’s  Child, 

- 

- 

- 

- 

409 

Mother’s  Way, 

- 

- 

- 

- 

412 

Feast  of  the  Presentation  of  Mary 

IN  THE  Temple, 

- 

- 

414 

iT.  Bridget, 

- 

- 

- 

- 

418 

^Ew  Year,  - - - 

- 

- 

- 

420 

ZeijjJl  (a  Story  prom  a Star), 

- 

- 

- 

- 

424 

Better  than  Gold, 

- 

- 

- 

- 

430 

Sea  dreamings. 

- 

- 

- 

- 

432 

Sea  Rest,  > - - 

• 

- 

- 

- 

434 

Sea  Reverie, 

- 

- 

• 

- 

438 

The  Immaculate  Conception, 

• 

• 

- 

- 

441 

Fifty  Years  at  the  Altar,  . 

• 

• 

451 

SONG  OF  THE  DEATHLESS  VOICE, 

- 

• 

• 

- 

467 

ro  Mr.  and  Mrs.  a.  M.  T.,  - 

- 

- 

• 

463 

To  Virginia  on  Her  Birthday,  - 

- 

- 

- 

- 

- 

465 

Epilogue,  - - - - 

466 

POSTHUMOUS 

POEMS. 

In  Remembrance,  _ _ _ 

467 

A Reverie,  _ - _ 

468 

Only  a Dream,  - - 

460 

The  Poet,  - - - . 

- 

- 

- 

- 

470 

The  Child  of  the  Poet, 

- 

- 

- 

- 

471 

The  Poet  Priest, 

... 

- 

- 

- 

472 

Wilt  Prat  for  Me  1 

• 

474 

ILLUSTRATIONS 


POETRAIT  OP  THE  AUTHOR,  _ _ - 

Convent  in  Which  Father  Ryan  Died,  - 
Room  Where  Father  Ryan  Died, 

Rrin’s  Flag,  - - - - 

The  Priest  Comes  Down  to  the  Railing, 

My  Beads,  - - 

St.  Mary’s  Church,  Mobile,  Ala.,  - 
The  Conquered  Banner, 

The  River  Ran  On— and  On— and  On, 

One  Night  in  Mid  of  May  Their  Faces  Met, 
Save  When  in  PraybBs  - - 


Frontispiece. 

- 32 
37 

- 61 
116 

* 211 
222 
« 232 
289 
• 354 
• 374 


ixxlM) 


Memoir  of  Father  Ryah 


B'sr  3ycoB»AJsr. 


It  is  regretted  that  the  materials  at  hand  at  thi»  writing  an 
not  sufficient  to  warrant  as  extended  a notice  as  the  oublishers 
of  the  present  enlarged  volume  of  Father  Byan’s  poems  would 
wish,  and  as  the  many  friends  and  admirers  of  the  dead  priest 
and  poet  desire.  So  distinguished  a character  and  so  brilliant 
a man  cannot  be  passed  over  lightly,  or  dealt  with  sparingly, 
if  the  demand  of  his  friends  and  the  public  generally  would 
be  satisfied  even  in  a moderate  degree;  for  Father  Byan’s  fame 
is  the  inheritance  of  a great  and  enlightened  nation,  and  hi^ 
writings  have  passed  into  history  to  emblazon  its  pages  and 
enrich  the  literature  of  the  present  and  succeeding  ages,  since 
it  is  confidently  believed  that,  with  the  lapse  of  time,  his  fame 
and  his  merits  will  grow  brighter  and  more  enduring.  With 
this  appreciation  of  his  merits,  and  a realizing  sense  of  what 
is  due  to  his  memory,  and  with  an  equal  consciousness  of  his 
own  want  of  ability  to  do  justice  to  the  subject,  the  writer 
bespeaks  the  indulgent  criticism  of  those  who  may  read  the 
following  remarks — ^admittedly  far  short  of  what  are  due  to  the 
illustrious  dead. 

The  exact  date  and  place  of  Father  Byan’s  birth  are  not  yet 
definitely  settled.  Some  assert  that  he  was  born  at  Norfolk, 
Ya.;  others  claim  Hagerstown,  Md.,  as  the  place  of  his  birth; 
whilst  there  is  some  ground  to  believe  that  in  Limerick,  Ireland, 
he  first  saw  the  light.  The  same  uncertainty  exists  as  to  time. 
Some  claim  to  know  that  he  was  born  in  1834,  whilst  others  fix. 

(XXV) 


XXVI 


Memoir^ 


with  equal  certainty,  the  year  1836  as  the  time.  Irj  the  midst 
of  these  conflicting  statements,  the  writer  prefers  to  leave  the 
questions  at  issue  for  future  determination,  when  it  is  hoped 
final  and  conclusive  proof  will  be  obtained  to  place  them  out- 
side the  realms  of  dispute.  Meanwhile,  he  will  present  what 
may  be  regarded  as  of  primary  importance  in  forming  a correct 
estimate  of  the  character  of  the  deceased,  and  the  value  of  his 
life  work,  which,  after  all,  are  the  chief  ends  sought  to  be 
accomplished. 

From  the  most  reliable  information  that  can  be  obtained, 
it  is  learned  that  Father  Ryan  went  to  St.  Louis  with  his 
parents  when  a lad  of  some  seven  or  eight  years.  There  he 
received  his  early  training  under  the  Brothers  of  the  Christian 
Schools.  Even  at  that  early  date  young  Ryan  showed  signs 
of  mental  activity  which  gave  promise  of  one  day  producing 
substantial  and  lasting  results.  He  evinced  rare  aptitude  for 
knowledge,  and  made  rapid  progress  in  its  attainment.  His 
thoughtful  mien  and  modest  look  soon  won  for  him  the  respect 
and  friendship  of  his  teachers,  and  the  esteem  and  affection  of 
his  companions.  It  was  noticed  that  he  had  an  instinctive 
reverence  for  sacred  things  and  places,  and  a rich  and  ardent 
nature  which  bespoke  deep  spirituality.  Discerning  eyes  soon 
recognized  in  the  mild  youth  the  germs  of  a future  vocation  to 
the  priesthood.  It  was,  therefore,  prudently  resolved  to  throw 
siround  him  every  possible  safeguard  in  order  to  protect  and 
cherish  so  rare  and  precious  a gift.  The  youth  himself  cor- 
responded to  this  design,  and  bent  all  his  energies  toward* 
acquiring  the  necessary  education  to  fit  him  for  entering  upon 
the  still  higher  and  more  extended  studies  required  for  the 
exalted  vocation  to  which  he  aspired.  In  due  time  he  had 
made  the  necessary  preparatory  studies,  and  was  deemed  fitted 
to  enter  the  ecclesiastical  seminary  at  Niagara,  N.  Y.,  whither 
he  went,  having  bid  an  affectionate  farewell  to  his  relatives 
and  numerous  friends,  who  fervently  invoked  heaven’s  blessing 
tipon  the  pious  youth  who,  they  hoped,  would  return  one  day 


Memoir^ 


XX  vis 


to  their  midst  to  offer  up  the  Clean  Oblation**  which  is  offered 
up  “from  the  rising  of  the  sun  until  the  going  down  thereof/’ 

The  heart  of  the  youth,  as  he  started  for  his  future  homCj 
was  all  aglow  with  the  fervor  that  animated  him  in  the  pur- 
suit  of  his  high  and  holy  purpose.  He  entered  the  seminary^ 
leaving  no  regrets  or  attachments  behind  him.  One  thing  only 
did  he  appear  to  regret— separation  from  home  and  the  loved 
ones  to  whom  he  had  bid  so  affectionate  an  adieu.  Home  and 
parents  are  ever  dear  to  the  pure  of  heart;  for  around  them 
cluster  memories  too  precious  and  associations  too  endearing 
for  utterance.  Father— mother — home,  “trinity  of  joys,” 
whose  completion  and  perfection  are  to  be  found  only  in  the 
Trinity  in  heaven — these  must  ever  remain  bright  recollections 
in  the  lives  of  all  who  cherish  ennobling  sentiments  which  do 
reverence  to  God  and  honor  to  humanity.  But  if  such  be  the 
effect  of  these  sentiments  upon  the  hearts  of  men  in  general, 
they  have  a still  deeper  and  more  tender  effect  upon  those  who, 
in  response  to  the  call  of  the  Master,  “Follow  thou  Me,”  have 
abandoned  all  things  for  His  sweet  sake,  that  they  may  find 
% home  hereafter  in  heaven,  after  having  spent  themselves  in 
iispensing  His  riches  and  benefits  to  men. 

Like  nearly  all  great  men.  Father  Kyan  owed  much  to  the 
f irly  training  and  example  of  his  truly  Christian  mother. 
Hence  the  deep  affection  he  ever  manifested  towards  her.  After 
the  lapse  of  long  years,  we  find  his  heart  still  fresh  and  loving, 
pouring  out  upon  the  grave  of  his  mother  all  the  wealth  of  his 
rich  mind  and  the  affection  of  his  chaste  heart.  He  tells  us 
that  he  had  placed  his  poems  upon  her  grave  as  a garland  of 
affection.  Oh  1 what  a beautiful  offering  on  the  part  of  a gifted 
«on  to  a devoted  mother!  Nature’s  richest  and  best  gifts 
consecrated  to  nature’s  purest  and  holiest  sentiments ! May  we 
not  suppose  that  the  endearing  affection  which  he  cherished  for 
his  mother  was  the  source  of  the  inspiration  which  drew  forth 
the  “splendid  brightness  of  his  songs?”  This  filial  reverence 
smd  tender  affection,  could  nothing  more  be  said  in  his  favor 


xxviii 


Memoir, 


would  speak  volumes  in  his  praise.  But  how  much  more  can 
be  said,  and  said  truly,  were  there  pen  and  lips  eloquent  enough 
to  proclaim  his  praises!  Mine  are  unworthy  of  the  task;  yet 
mine  be  the  duty  of  recalling  some,  at  least,  of  the  virtues  and 
qualities  that  marked  him  during  life;  for  virtues  and  estimable 
qualities  he  had,  and  they  were  many  and  conspicuous.  Heaven 
doth  know,  earth  doth  witness,  angels  have  recorded,  that  he  is 
worthy  of  praise.  Therefore,  in  no  cold  and  measured  terms 
shall  the  writer  speak  of  the  dear  and  venerated  dead,  Abram  J. 
Ryan,  priest  and  poet — once  magic  name,  still  revered  and 
possessed  of  talismanic  power*  If  we  cannot  crown  thee, 
O child  of  genius,  with  a wreath  of  justice,  let  us,  at  least, 
endeavor  to  crown  thee  with  a garland  of  love,  composed  of 
thy  own  glorious  deeds  and  achievements. 

Having  passed  through  the  usual  course  of  studies  in  an 
ecclesiastical  seminary  with  distinction.  Father  Ryan  was  duly 
ordained  priest,  and  soon  afterwards  entered  upon  the  active 
duties  of  missionary  life.  But  little  was  heard  of  him  until  the 
breaking  out  of  the  late  civil  war,  when  he  entered  the  Con- 
federate army  as  a chaplain,  and  served  in  that  capacity  up  to 
the  close  of  the  civil  war.  He  was  then  stationed  at  Nashville, 
afterwards  at  Clarksville,  Tenn.,  and  still  later  at  Augusta,  Ga., 
where  he  founded  the  Banner  of  the  South,  which  exercised 
great  influence  over  the  people  of  that  section,  and  continued 
about  five  years,  when  Father  Ryan  was  obliged  to  suspend  its 
publication.  He  then  removed  to  Mobile,  Ala.,  where  he  was 
appointed  pastor  of  St.  Mary’s  Church  in  1870,  and  continued 
in  that  position  until  1883,  when  he  obtained  leave  of  absence 
from  Bishop  Quinlan  to  make  an  extended  lecture  tour  of  the 
country  to  further  a praiseworthy  and  charitable  undertaking 
of  great  interest  to  the  South.  Bishop  Quinlan  having  died 
soon  afterwards.  Father  Ryan’s  leave  was  extended  by  his 
successor,  Bishop  Manucy.  It  was  whilst  engaged  in  this 
mission  that  Father  Ryan  received  his  death  summons. 

During  all  these  changes  and  joumeyings,  the  busy  braio 


Memoir. 


xxix 


©f  Father  Byan  was  incessantly  employed,  expending  itself  in 
composing  those  immortal  poems  which  have  won  their  way  to 
all  hearts  and  elicited  widespread  and  unmeasured  praise  from 
critics  of  the  highest  repute.  Like  all  true  poets,  Father  Kyan 
touched  the  tenderest  chords  of  the  human  heart,  and  made 
them  respond  to  his  own  lofty  feelings  and  sublime  inspirations. 

Of  his  priestly  character  but  little  need  be  said.  His 
superiors  and  those  whom  he  served  know  best  how  well  and 
faithfully  he  discharged  the  some  times  severe  and  always 
onerous  and  responsible  duties  of  his  sacred  calling.  The  merit 
of  his  life-work  is  now  the  measure  of  his  reward.  As  he  had 
in  view  only  God’s  honor  and  glory,  and  the  good  of  his  fellow- 
men,  and  directed  his  labors  and  employed  his  talents  to 
promote  these  ends,  may  we  not  hope  that  a merciful  Judge 
has  given  him  a recompense  in  excess  of  his  deserts,  since,  in 
the  bountifulness  of  His  liberality,  He  is  wont  to  bestow  a 
reward  exceeding  our  merits? 

But  it  is  not  claimed  that  Father  Ryan  was  without  fault. 
This  would  be  attributing  to  him  angelic  nature  or  equivalent 
perfection,  against  which,  were  he  living,  he  would  be  the  first 
to  protest.  He  needs  no  such  fulsome  or  exaggerated  praise. 
He  was  a man,  though  not  cast  in  the  common  mould,  and  as 
such  let  us  view  him.  Doubtless  ho  had  his  faults,  and 
perhaps  not  a few;  for  “the  best  ^f  men  are  only  the  least 
sinful.”  But  as  far  as  is  known,  he  had  no  serious  defects  or 
blemishes  that  would  mar  the  beauty  or  disturb  the  harmonious 
grandeur  of  his  character  in  its  entirety.  Had  his  heart  been 
cold  and  selfish,  or  his  thoughts  defiled  with  the  sordid  cares 
of  earth,  he  never  could  have  sung  so  sweetly  or  soared  so 
sublimely  into  those  serene  and  heavenly  regions  whither  hiar 
chaste  fancy  led  him.  He  delighted  to  roam  in  those  far-off 
regions  beyond  the  skies,  whose  spheres  are  ruled  and  whose 
realms  are  governed  by  those  mysterious  laws  which  have  theil 
fountain  source  in  God,  and  whose  operations  are  controlled  by 
the  exercise  of  His  infinite  power  and  love.  His  defects^  then, 


XXX 


Memoir. 


did  not  seriously  impair  the  integrity  of  his  virtues,  which 
were  many  and  solid.  Chief  amongst  his  virtues  may  be  named 
his  zeal  for  the  honor  and  glory  of  God,  and  devotion  to  the 
Mother  of  God — the  latter  the  necessary  outgrowth  of  the 
former.  The  deep  and  earnest  piety  of  Father  Ryan  towards 
his  ‘‘Queen  and  Patroness,’^  as  he  loved  to  call  her,  bespeaks 
much  in  his  praise ; for,  like  all  truly  great  men  of  the  Catholic 
Church,  he  saw  that  it  was  not  only  eminently  proper,  but  also 
a sublime  act  of  Christian  duty,  to  pay  filial  reverence  and 
honor  , to  the  Mother  of  God.  Hence  Father  Ryan  crowned 
Mary  with  many  gems  of  rare  beauty.  Amongst  them  may 
be  named  his  beautiful  poem,  “Last  of  May,’’  dedicated  to 
the  Children  of  Mary,  of  the  Cathedral  of  Mobile,  Ala. 
Fbw  Catholics  will  read  these  lines  without  experiencing 
feelings  of  deep  and  tender  devotion  towards  their  Queen  and 
Mother. 

Father  jRyan^s  was  an  open,  manly  character,  in  which 
there  was  no  dissimulation.  His  generous  nature  and  warm 
heart  were  ever  moved  by  kind  impulses  and  influenced  by 
charitable  feelings,  as  became  his  priestly  calling.  We  may 
readily  believe  him  when  he  tells  us  that  he  never  wrote  a line 
for  hate’s  sake.  He  shrank  instinctively  from  all  that  was 
mean  and  sordid.  Generosity  was  a marked  trait  of  his 
character,  an  ennobling  principle  of  his  nature,  the  motive 
power  of  his  actions,  and  the  main-spring  of  his  life.  Friend- 
ship was  likewise  congenial  to  his  taste,  if  not  a necessity  of  his 
nature;  and  with  him  it  meant  more  than  a name.  It  was 
% sacred  union  formed  between  kindred  spirits — a chain  of 
affection  whose  binding  link  was  fidelity.  Never  was  he  false 
k>  its  claims,  nor  known  to  have  violated  its  obligations. 
Hence  he  was  highly  esteemed  during  life  by  numerous  persons 
of  all  classes  and  denominations;  for  his  sympathies  were  as 
nroad  as  humanity,  and  as  far-reaching  as  its  wants  and  its 
miseries.  Yet  he  was  a man  of  deep  conviction  and  a strict 
adherent  to  principle,  or  what  he  conceived  to  be  principle ; iol 


Memoir. 


XXX  i 


we  find  him  long  after  the  war  still  clinging  to  its  memories, 
and  slow  to  accept  its  results,  which  he  believed  were  fraught 
with  disaster  to  the  people  of  his  section.  A Southerner  of  the 
most  pronounced  kind,  he  was  unwilling  to  make  any  concession 
to  hib  victorious  opponents  of  the  North  which  could  be  with- 
held from  them.  Perhaps,  upon  reflection,  it  may  not  appear 
wholly  strange  or  inexplicable  that  he  should  have  so  acted. 
There  was,  at  least,  some  foundation  for  his  fears  with  regard 
to  the  ill-fate  of  those  of  his  section.  Though  peace  had  been 
proclaimed,  the  rainbow  of  hope  did  not  encircle  the  heavens 
or  cast  its  peaceful  shadow  over  the  South.  Dark  clouds 
loomed  up  over  that  fair  and  sunny  land,  portentous  of  evil ; 
for  they  were  surcharged  with  the  lightning  of  passion.  The 
chariot  wheel  of  the  conqueror  had  laid  waste  and  desolate  the 
land.  No  one  knew  precisely  what  would  follow;  for  passion’s 
dark  spirit  was  abroad  and  ruling  in  high  places.  To  make 
matters  worse  and  intensify  the  sufferings  of  the  people  still 
more,  they  were  debarred  from  participating  in  the  political 
affairs  of  their  own  States.  Non-residents,  and  aliens  in  sym- 
pathy and  common  interest,  were  appointed  to  rule  over  them, 
if  not  to  oppress  them.  Is  it  to  be  wondered  at  if  some  refused 
to  bow  and  kiss  the  hands  that  were  uplifted  against  them? 
Among  such  was  Father  Ryan.  All  honor  to  the  man  and 
those  who  stood  by  him!  Instead  of  attempting  to  cast 
obloquy  upon  their  memory,  we  should  do  them  honor  for 
having  maintained  in  its  integrity  the  dignity  of  the  manhood 
with  which  heaven  had  blessed  them,  when  earth  had  deprived 
them  of  all  else  that  was  dear  and  sacred  to  brave  and  honor- 
able men.  But  how  differently  Father  Ryan  acted  when  the 
oppressed  people  of  the  South  were  restored  to  their  rights, 
and  when  the  great  heart  of  the  North  went  out  in  sympathy 
towards  them  in  their  dire  affliction  during  the  awful  visitation 
of  the  yellow  fever,  when  death  reaped  a rich  harvest  in 
Memphis  and  elsewhere,  and  a sorrow-stricken  land  was  once 
more  buried  in  ruin  and  desolation.  It  was  then,  indeed,  that 


xxxii 


Memoir. 


Father  Ryan  and  all  good  men  beheld  the  grand  spectacle  of 
the  whole  North  coming  to  the  rescue  of  the  afflicted  South 
with  intense  and  sublime  admiration.  He  then  saw  for  certain 
the  rainbow  of  peace  span  the  heavens ; and  though  his  section 
was  wailing  under  the  hand  of  affliction,  he  yet  took  down  his 
harp,  which  for  years  had  hung  on  the  weeping  willows  of  his 
much-loved  South,  and,  with  renewed  vigor  and  strength  of 
heart,  again  touched  its  chords  and  drew  forth  in  rich  tones 
and  glorious  melodies  his  grand  poem  “Reunited.’’  Then  it 
was  that  the  star  of  peace  shone  out  in  the  heavens,  resplendent 
with  the  brightness  and  purity  of  love,  and  dispelled  the  dark 
and  foul  spirit  of  hate  which  had  poisoned  the  air  and  polluted 
the  soil  of  free  Columbia.  Then,  too,  the  angel  of  affliction 
and  the  angel  of  charity  joined  hands  together  and  pronounced 
the  benediction  over  a restored  Union  and  a reunited  people. 

Before  proceeding  to  speak  of  Father  Ryan’s  poems,  a few 
observations  upon  poets  and  poetry  in  general  may  not  be 
deemed  inappropriate.  To  speak  of  poets  and  their  merits  is 
by  no  means  an  easy  matter,  even  where  one  is  in  every  respect 
fitted  to  pronounce  critical  judgment.  It  requires  rare  quali- 
fications for  such  a task ; a wide  range  of  information ; exten- 
sive knowledge  of  the  various  authors ; a keen  sense  of  justice ; 
a fine  sense  of  appreciation  of  the  merits  and  demerits  of  each, 
and  a rare  power  of  discrimination.  These  are  qualifications 
Seldom  combined  in  a single  person.  Hence  so  few  competent 
cntics  are  to  be  found.  The  writer  does  not  claim  to  possess  all 
01  any  one  of  these  powers  in  as  eminent  a degree  as  would  fit 
him  for  the  work  of  passing  judicious  criticism  upon  the  various 
authors  and  their  works — or,  indeed,  any  single  one  of  them. 
What  i e will  venture  to  say,  therefore,  is  by  way  of  preface  to 
the  remarks  which  he  is  called  upon  to  offer  upon  the  merits  of 
the  particular  poet  whose  productions  he  is  specially  called 
upon  to  consider. 

Of  poets  it  may  be  said,  that  they  are  not  like  other  men, 
tkough  invested  with  similar  qualities  and  characteristiest 


Convent  where  Father  Ryan  Died, 


Memoir. 


xxxiii 


They  differ  in  this : That  they  are  not  cold  and  calculating  in 
their  speech ; they  do  not  analyze  and  weigh  their  words  with 
the  same  precision ; nor  are  they  always  master  of  their  feelings. 
Possessed  of  the  subtle  power  of  genius,  which  no  mortal  can 
describe,  though  all  may  experience  its  potent  influence,  they 
cannot  be  confined  within  the  narrow  limits  assigned  to  others 
less  gifted,  nor  subjected  to  fixed  methods  or  unvarying  pro- 
cesses of  mental  action.  No ; poets  must  roam  in  broader  fields, 
amidst  brighter  prospects  and  more  elevated  surroundings. 
They  must  be  left  to  themselves,  to  go  where  they  choose,  and 
evolve  their  thoughts  according  to  their  own  ways  and  fancies ; 
for  ways  and  fancies  they  have  which  are  peculiar  to  themselves 
and  must  be  in  iulged.  Genius  is  ever  wont  to  be  odd,  in  the 
sense  that  it  does  not  and  cannot  be  made  to  move  in  common 
ruts  and  channels.  This  is  especially  true  of  poetic  genius, 
whose  very  life  may  be  said  to  depend  upon  the  purity  of  its 
inspirations  and  the  breadth  and  character  of  its  surroundings. 

Much  has  been  said,  and  deservedly,  in  favor  of  the  great 
poets  of  antiquity.  Unmeasured  praise  has  been  bestowed  upon 
the  epic  grandeur  of  Homer  and  the  classical  purity  of  Virgil. 
They  have  ever  been  considered  as  foremost  amongst  the  best 
models  of  poetic  excellence.  Yet  there  was  wanting  to  them 
the  true  sources  of  poetic  inspiration,  whence  flow  the  loftiest 
conceptions  and  sublimest  emanations  of  genius.  Homer  never 
rose  above  the  summit  of  Olympus,  nor  Virgil  above  the  level 
of  pagan  subjects  and  surroundings.  Therefore  they  cannot 
be  properly  regarded  as  the  highest  and  best  models,  certainly 
not  the  safest,  for  Christians,  who  can  feast  their  eyes  and  fill 
their  minds  and  hearts  with  more  perfect  models  and  more 
sublime  subjects.  The  sight  of  Sinai,  where  Jehovah,  the  God 
of  Israel,  is  veiled  in  the  awful  splendor  of  His  majesty,  whilst 
His  voice  is  heard  in  the  loud  war  and  fierce  thunderings 
amongst  the  clouds,  as  the  lightnings  crown  its  summit,  is  far 
more  grand  and  imposing,  more  sublime  and  inspiring,  than 
are  ttiose  subjects  presented  to  us  by  pagan  authors,  howeywr 


Kxidy 


Memoir. 


refined  and  elegant  may  be  the  language  employed  to  convey 
their  thoughts  and  depict  their  scenes.  Wherefore,  the  Biblical 
narratives  furnish  the  highest  and  best  models  and  the  richest 
sources  of  poetic  inspiration;  and  “all  great  poets  have  had 
recourse  to  those  ever-living  fountains  to  learn  the  secret  of 
elevating  our  hearts,  ennobling  our  affections,  and  finding  sub- 
jects worthy  of  their  genius. 

The  writer  would  not  care  to  assert  that  Father  Ryan’s 
poems  possess  the  majestic  grandeur  and  elaborate  finish  of  the 
great  masters,  whose  productions  have  withstood  the  severe 
criticism  of  ages,  and  still  stand  as  the  highest  models  of  poetic 
excellence.  His  style  is  not  that  of  Milton,  who  soared  aloft 
into  the  eternal  mansions  and  opened  their  portals  to  our 
astonished  and  admiring  gaze,  picturing  to  us  “God  in  His 
first  frown  and  man  in  his  first  prevarication.”  Nor  is  it  that 
of  Shakespeare,  whose  deep  and  subtle  mind  fathomed  “ the 
dark  abysses  of  the  human  heart,”  and  laid  bare  and  naked  the 
varied  doings  of  mankind  I Nor  is  it,  least  of  all,  that  of  Dante, 
who,  with  even  greater  boldness  than  Milton,  plunged  into  the 
impenetrable  depths  of  the  infernal  regions,  whose  appalling 
misery  and  never-ending  woe  he  has  described  in  words  of 
fearful  and  awe-inspiring  grandeur.  Neither  is  his  style  like 
unto  that  of  any  one  of  the  several  leading  American  poets, 
so  far  as  their  works  are  known  to  the  writer,  though  some 
have  said  that  his  style  resembles  that  of  the  highly-gifted  and 
lamented  Poe. 

The  writer  will  not  undertake  to  say  what  place  Father  Ryan 
will  occupy  in  the  Temple  of  Fame,  though  he  believes  that 
an  enlightened  public  sentiment  will  accord  to  him  a high 
position.  The  chief  merits  of  his  poems  would  seem  to  be  the 
simple  sublimity  of  his  verses ; the  rare  and  chaste  beauty  of  his 
conceptions;  the  richness  and  grandeur  of  his  thoughts,  ana 
their  easy,  natural  flow;  the  refined  elegance  and  captivating 
force  of  the  terms  he  employs  as  the  medium  through  which 
he  communicates  those  thoughts,  and  the  weird  fancy  which 


Memoir. 


XXXV 


throws  around  them  charms  peculiarly  their  own.  These,  and 
perhaps  other  merits,  will  win  for  their  author  enduring  fame. 

For  the  future  of  Father  Ryan’s  poems  we  need  have  no 
fears.  They  will  pass  down  through  the  ages  bearing  the  stamp 
of  genius,  impressed  with  the  majesty  of  truth,  replete  with 
the  power  and  grandeur  of  love ; these  are  the  purest  sources 
of  poetic  inspiration;  for  both  are  attributes  of  the  Divinity. 
Strip  poetry  of  these,  and  nothing  remains  but  its  mutilated 
relics  and  soulless  body ; it  becomes  robbed  of  its  highest  glory 
and  its  most  enduring  qualities. 

Though  the  South  may  claim  Father  Ryan  as  her  son  of 
genius,  whose  heart  beat  in  sympathy  with  her  hopes  and  her 
aspirations,  and  of  whose  productions  she  may  well  feel  proud ; 
yet  no  section  owns  him,  since  he  belongs  to  our  common 
country,  and  in  a certain  sense  to  mankind;  for  the  fame  of 
genius  is  not  controlled  by  sections  or  circumscribed  within 
limits;  it  extends  beyond  the  confines  of  earth — yea,  untc 
eternity  itself  I It  is  proper  to  regard  him  in  this  light  as  the 
heritage  of  the  nation ; for  in  the  nation’s  keeping  his  fame 
will  be  secure  and  appropriately  perpetuated.  All  sections  will 
unite  in  doing  honor  to  his  memory,  which  is  associated  with 
grand  intellectual  triumphs,  won  by  the  imion  of  the  highest 
gifts  of  the  Creator — the  union  of  religion  and  poetic  genius; 
/he  former  the  source  and  inspiration  of  the  latter. 

Father  Ryan  also  wrote  several  works  of  prose,  chief 
amongst  which  is  that  entitled  “A  Crown  for  Our  Queen.’' 
Like  his  poem,  “Last  of  May,”  this  book  was  intended  as  a 
loving  tribute  to  Mary,  the  Mother  of  God,  whom  he  wished  ta 
honor  as  the  highest  type  and  grandest  embodiment  of  woman- 
hood. If  Father  Ryan  failed  to  make  this  work  worthy  of  the 
exalted  subject — an  opinion  by  no  means  expressed — ^it  was  not 
from  any  lack  of  good-will  and  earnest  purpose  on  his  part. 
With  him  tender  affection  for  the  Queen  of  Heaven  was  a pure 
and  holy  sentiment,  a sublime  and  ennobling  act  of  piety.  He 
saw  in  her  lofty  and  immaculate  beauty  the  true  ideal  oi 


XXX  yi 


Memoir. 


woman;  and  this  explains  the  deep  reverence  and  delicate 
sentiment  of  respect  and  sympathy  which  he  exhibited  towards 
all  women.  Poetical  sentiment  and  religious  feeling  he  thus 
happily  blended,  as  they  should  ever  be,  in  directing  and 
influencing  man’s  action  in  his  relations  and  intercourse  with 
woman. 

Three  essentially  poetical  sentiments  exist  in  man,  says  a 
distinguished  writer:  The  love  of  God,  the  love  of  woman, 
and  the  love  of  country — the  religious,  the  human,  and  the 
political  sentiment.  For  this  reason,  continues  the  same  writer, 
wherever  the  knowledge  of  God  is  darkened,  wherever  the  face 
of  woman  is  veiled,  wherever  the  people  are  captive  or  enslaved, 
there  poetry  is  like  a flame  which,  for  want  of  fuel,  exhausts 
itself  and  dies  out.  On  the  contrary,  wherever  God  reigns  upon 
His  throne  in  all  the  majesty  of  His  glory,  wherever  woman 
rules  by  the  irresistible  power  of  her  enchantments,  wherever 
the  people  are  free,  there  poetry  has  modest  roses  for  the 
woman,  glorious  palms  for  the  people,  and  splendid  wings 
with  which  to  mount  up  to  the  loftiest  regions  of  heaven. 

Father  Ryan  also  won  distinction  as  an  orator,  a lecturer, 
and  an  essayist,  having  contributed  to  several  of  the  leading 
journals  and  magazines  of  the  country.  His  oratory  was  not 
of  the  cold  and  unimpassioned  kind  which  falls  upon  the  ears, 
but  fails  to  make  an  impression  on  the  heart.  He  did  not 
lose  sight  of  the  fact  that  the  chief  end  and  aim  of  oratory 
are  to  arouse  men  to  a sense  of  their  duty,  deter  them  from  the 
commission  of  evil,  and  inspire  them  with  high  and  holy  pur- 
poses,  and  noble,  generous  resolves,  the  accomplishment  of 
which  demands  that  the  living,  breathing  spirit  or  soul  should 
be  infused  into  the  words.  Though  the  unction  of  divine 
charity  can  alone  give  eflicacy  to  man’s  words,  yet  man  must 
not  appear  to  be  devoid  of  those  qualities  and  attributes  which 
contribute  towards  making  a lasting  impression  upon  the  minds 
and  hearts  of  those  whose  interests  are  presumed  to  be  dear 
to  him.  This  was  the  spirit  that  animated  Father  Ryan,  and 


Eyan  Died. 


1 


Memoir. 


XXX  vii 


all  his  efforts  were  directed  towards  the  accomplishment  of  the 
objects  stated.  It  is  not  claimed  that  all  his  discourses  were 
up  to  the  highest  standard  of  literary  excellence,  or  above 
the  test  of  exact  criticism.  Some  of  his  efforts  did  not  bear 
evidence  of  deep  thought  or  careful  and  exhaustive  preparation, 
but  all  exhibited  warmth  of  soul  and  earnestness  of  purpose. 
It  may  be  well  to  remark  in  connection  with  this,  that  Father 
Ryan’s  health  for  many  years  was  such  that  it  would  not  permit 
of  his  engaging  in  laborious  mental  work.  And  yet  he  labored 
much  and  spoke  often ; for  his  zeal  and  mental  activity  were 
greatly  in  excess  of  his  strength.  Had  his  physical  powers 
corresponded  to  his  rare  mental  endowments,  the  value  of  his 
productions — great  as  it  now  is — would  have  been  enhanced. 
The  marvel  is  that  he  was  able  to  sustain  those  powers  of  mind 
which  marked  him  up  to  the  time  of  his  death. 

Though  he  had  been  ailing  for  years,  as  has  been  stated,  yet 
his  wonderful  energy  of  mind  made  it  appear  to  many  that 
there  was  no  immediate  danger  of  his  life.  When  the  end 
came  it  was  a surprise  to  all,  even  himself.  To  him  let  us  hope 
that  it  was  not  unprovided  for.  We  have  the  gratifying  assur- 
ance that  it  was  not  so ; for  we  are  told  that  he  had  retired  into 
a Franciscan  monastery  in  Louisville,  Ky.,  to  make  a retreat, 
intending,  at  its  close,  to  finish  a ‘‘Life  of  Christ,”  on  which  he 
was  engaged,  or  purposed  to  undertake.  Little  did  he  think, 
apparently  at  least,  that  the  Angel  of  Death  pursued  him  and 
would  soon  deliver  the  final  message  to  him.  He  did  not  fear 
the  end.  Why  should  he  ? Death  has  no  terrors  for  the  truly 
Christian  soul.  It  is  not  the  end,  but  the  beginning  of  life ; 
not  the  destroyer,  but  the  restorer  of  our  rights — that  which 
puts  us  in  possession  of  our  eternal  home  in  heaven.  There- 
fore he  was  not  gloomy  nor  despondent  at  the  sight  of  the 
grave.  He  saw  beyond  it  the  glorious  sunshine  of  God’s  pres- 
ence and  the  cheering  prospect  of  His  love.  The  final  moment 
at  last  came  and  found  him  prepared.  On  the  23d  of  April, 
1886,  the  goal  of  Abram  J.  Ryan,  priest  and  poet,  beloved  of 


xxxviii 


Memoir. 


all  who  knew  him,  passed  quietly  away,  let  us  hope,  from  earth 
to  heaven,  there  to  sing  the  glorious  songs  whose  melodies  are 
ftt^uned  to  the  harps  of  angels,  and  whose  mysterious  harmonies 
ransh  with  delight  the  pure  souls  of  the  just.  As  the  setting 
sun  on  a calm  eve  sinks  beneath  the  horizon,  gilding  the 
heavens  with  its  mild  yet  gorgeous  splendor,  so  did  the  grand 
soul  of  Father  Ryan  pass  into  eternity,  leaving  behind  the 
bright  light  of  his  genius  and  virtues — the  one  to  illumine  the 
firmament  of  literature,  and  the  other  to  serve  as  a shining 
example  to  men. 

Here  the  writer  would  end  this  imperfect  tribute  to  a truly 
great  character,  did  he  not  wish  to  remind  the  reader  that  he 
must  not  regard  it  as  an  entire  portrait  of  the  illustrious  dead, 
though  he  has  tried  to  present  him  clothed  with  some,  at  least, 
of  the  attributes  and  qualities  which  marked  him  during  life. 
The  failure,  if  such  it  be,  must  be  ascribed  to  his  own  want  of 
skill  and  ability  rather  than  to  any  lack  of  merit  in  the  subject. 
If  he  has  not  invested  him  with  the  panoply  of  his  greatness, 
he  has  endeavored  to  strew  some  flowers  over  his  grave ; and 
these  are  love’s  purest  and  best  offering,  which,  were  he  living, 
would  be  most  acceptable  to  the  heart  of  the  poet ; for  love  it 
was  that  inspired  its  tenderest  promptings  and  holiest  feelings 
and  consecrated  them  to  its  ennobling  influence. 

Another  thought,  and  the  writer  will  bring  his  remarks  to 
a close.  This  thought  will  be  borrowed  from  the  dead  priest’s 
poem,  “Reunited,”  to  suggest  a sentiment  in  response  to  his 
prayer  for  a union  of  all  sections — a sentiment  which  cannot 
fail  to  meet  a ready  and  generous  acceptance  on  the  part  of  all 
true  lovers  of  liberty.  The  thought  is  embodied  in  the  fol- 
lowing words,  which  take  the  form  of  an  appeal : 

Let  all  hearts  join  in  the  wish  that  the  valor  displayed  and 
the  sacrifices  endured  on  both  sides  during  the  late  civil  war 
may  henceforth  unite  all  sections  of  our  common  country  more 
closely  in  the  bonds  of  fraternal  affection,  and  cement  more 
firmly  the  foundations  of  our  political  superstructure,  now  so 


Memoir. 


XXXIX 


vast  and  imposing,  thus  serving  as  a guaranty  for  the  stability, 
permanence,  and  enduring  greatness  of  the  republic  1 Thus 
will  we  respond  to  the  prayer  of  the  dead  priest,  whose  poem, 
the  “Lost  Cause,”  and  song  of  “The  Conquered  Banner,”  will 
mingle  harmoniously  with  the  soft,  earnest  words  and  sweet, 
placid  tones  of  his  peaceful  “ Reunited.  ” So  the  songs  of  the 
dead  poet  will  be  music  to  the  living  until  time  shall  be  no 
more. 


Washington,  D.  0. 


SONG  OF  THE  MYSTIC. 


I WALK  down  the  Valley  of  Silence — 
Down  the  dim,  voiceless  valley — alone! 

And  I hear  not  the  fall  of  a footstep 
Around  me,  save  God^s  and  my  own; 

And  the  hush  of  my  heart  is  as  holy 
As  hovers  where  angels  have  flown! 

Long  ago  was  I weary  of  voices 
Whose  music  my  heart  could  not  win; 

Long  ago  was  I weary  of  noises 

That  fretted  my  soul  with  their  din; 

Long  ago  was  I weary  of  places 
Where  I met  but  the  human — and  sin. 

I walked  in  the  world  with  the  worldly; 

I craved  what  the  world  never  gave; 

And  I said:  ^^In  the  world  each  Ideal, 
That  shines  like  a star  on  life’s  wave, 

Is  wrecked  on  the  shores  of  the  Eeal, 
And  sleeps  like  a dream  in  a grave.’^ 

(36) 


36 


Song  of  the  Mystic. 


And  still  did  I pine  for  the  Perfect, 

And  still  found  the  False  with  the  True; 

I sought  ’mid  the  Human  for  Heaven, 

But  caught  a mere  glimpse  of  its  Blue: 

And  I wept  when  the  clouds  of  the  Mortal 
Veiled  even  that  glimpse  from  my  view. 

And  I toiled  on,  heart-tired  of  the  Human, 
And  I moaned  ’mid  the  mazes  of  men, 

Till  I knelt,  long  ago,  at  an  altar 
And  I heard  a voice  call  me.  Since  then 

I walk  down  the  Valley  of  Silence 
That  lies  far  beyond  mortal  ken. 

Do  you  ask  what  I found  in  the  Valley? 

’Tis  my  Trysting  Place  with  the  Divine. 

And  I fell  at  the  feet  of  the  Holy, 

And  above  me  a voice  said : Be  mine.” 

And  there  arose  from  the  depths  of  my  spirit 
An  echo — ‘^My  heart  shall  be  thine.” 

Do  you  ask  how  I live  in  the  Valley? 

I weep — and  I dream — and  I pray. 

But  my  tears  are  as  sweet  as  the  dew-drops 
That  fall  on  the  roses  in  May; 

And  my  prayer,  like  a perfume  from  Censers, 
Ascendeth  to  God  night  and  day. 


Song  of  the  Mystio. 


37 


In  the  hush  of  the  Valley  of  Silence 
I dream  all  the  songs  that  I sing; 

And  the  music  floats  down  the  dim  Valley, 
Till  each  finds  a word  for  a wing, 

That  to  hearts,  like  the  Dove  of  the  Deluge, 
A message  of  Peace  they  may  bring. 

But  far  on  the  deep  there  are  billows 
That  never  shall  break  on  the  beach; 

And  I have  heard  songs  in  the  Silence 
That  never  shall  float  into  speech; 

And  I have  had  dreams  in  the  Valley 
Too  lofty  for  language  to  reach. 

And  I have  seen  Thoughts  in  the  Valley— 
Ah ! me,  how  my  spirit  was  stirred ! 

And  they  wear  holy  veils  on  their  feces, 
Their  footsteps  can  scarcely  be  heard : 

They  pass  through  the  Valley  like  Virgins* 
Too  pure  for  the  touch  of  a word ! 

Do  you  ask  me  the  place  of  the  Valley, 

Ye  hearts  that  are  harrowed  by  Care? 

It  lieth  afar  between  mountains. 

And  God  and  His  angels  are  there: 

And  one  is  the  dark  mount  of  Sorrow, 

And  one  the  bright  mountain  of  Prayer 


REVERIE. 


Only  a few  more  years! 

Weary  years! 

Only  a few  more  tears! 

Bitter  tears! 

And  then — and  then — like  other  men, 

I cease  to  wander,  cease  to  weep, 

Dim  shadows  o’er  my  way  shall  creep; 
And  out  of  the  day  and  into  the  night, 
Into  the  dark  and  out  of  the  bright 
I go,  and  Death  shall  veil  my  face. 

The  feet  of  the  years  shall  fast  efface 
My  very  name,  and  every  trace 
I leave  on  earth ; for  the  stern  years  tread. 
Tread  out  the  names  of  the  gone  and  dead! 
And  then,  ah!  then,  like  other  men, 

I close  my  eyes  and  go  to  sleep, 

Only  a few,  one  hour,  shall  weep: 

Ah!  me,  the  grave  is  dark  and  deep! 


Reverie. 


39 


Alas!  Alas! 

How  soon  we  pass! 

And  ah!  we  go 
So  far  away; 

When  go  we  must, 

From  the  light  of  Life,  and  the  heat  of  strife. 
To  the  peace  of  Death,  and  the  cold,  still  dust^ 
We  go — we  go — we  may  not  stay. 

We  travel  the  lone,  dark,  dreary  way; 

Out  of  the  day  and  into  the  night. 

Into  the  darkness,  out  of  the  bright. 

Ahd  then,  ah ! then,  like  other  men. 

We  close  our  eyes  and  go  to  sleep; 

We  hush  our  hearts  and  go  to  sleep; 

Only  a few,  one  hour,  shall  weep: 

Ah!  me,  the  grave  is  lone  and  deep! 


I saw  a flower,  at  morn,  so  fair; 

I passed  at  eve,  it  was  not  there. 

1 saw  a sunbeam,  golden,  bright, 

I saw  a cloud  the  sunbeam’s  shroud. 
And  I saw  night 

Digging  the  grave  of  day; 

And  day  took  off  her  golden  crown, 
.And  flung  it  sorrowfully  down. 


40 


Reverie. 


Ah!  day,  the  Sun’s  fair  bride! 

At  twilight  moaned  and  died. 
And  so,  alas!  like  day  we  pass: 

At  morn  we  smile, 

At  eve  we  weep, 

At  morn  we  wake, 

In  night  we  sleep. 

We  close  our  eyes  and  go  to  sleep: 
Ah!  me,  the  grave  is  still  and  deep! 


But  God  is  sweet. 

My  mother  told  me  so, 
When  I knelt  at  her  feet 
Long — so  long — ago; 

She  clasped  my  hands  in  hers. 

Ah ! me,  that  memory  stirs 
My  soul’s  profoundest  deep — 

No  wonder  that  I weep. 

She  clasped  my  hands  and  smiled. 
Ah!  then  I was  a child — 

I knew  not  harm — 

My  mother’s  arm 
Was  flung  around  me;  and  I felt 
That  when  I knelt 

To  listen  to  my  m.other’s  prayer, 
God  was  with  mother  there. 


Reverie. 


41 


Yea!  God  is  sweet! 

She  told  me  so; 

She  never  told  me  wrong; 

And  through  my  years  of  woe 
Her  whispers  soft,  and  sad,  and  low. 

And  sweet  as  Angel’s  song. 

Have  floated  like  a dream. 

And,  ah!  to-night  I seem 
A very  child  in  my  old,  old  place. 

Beneath  my  mother’s  blessed  face; 

And  through  each  sweet  remembered  word, 
This  sweetest  undertone  is  heard : 

^^My  child!  my  child!  our  God  is  sweet, 

In  Life — in  Death — kneel  at  his  feet — 
Sweet  in  gladness,  sweet  in  gloom, 

Sweeter  still  beside  the  tomb.” 

Why  should  I wail?  Why  ought  I weep? 
The  grave — it  is  not  dark  and  deep; 

Why  should  I sigh?  Why  ought  I moan? 
The  grave — it  is  not  still  and  lone; 

Our  God  is  sweet,  our  grave  is  sweet, 

We  lie  there  sleeping  at  His  feet. 

Where  the  wicked  shall  from  troubling  ceasei. 
And  weary  hearts  shall  rest  in  peace! 


LINES— 1875. 


Go  down  where  the  wavelets  are  kissing  the  shore, 

And  ask  of  them  why  do  they  sigh? 

The  poets  have  asked  them  a thousand  times  o^er. 

But  they’re  kissing  the  shore  as  they  kissed  it  before, 
And  they’re  sighing  to-day,  and  they’ll  sigh  evermora 
Ask  them  what  ails  them:  they  will  not  reply; 

But  they’ll  sigh  on  forever  and  never  tell  whyl 
Why  does  your  poetry  sound  like  a sigh? 

The  waves  will  not  answer  you;  neither  shall  L 

Go  stand  on  the  beach  of  the  blue  boundless  deep. 
When  the  night  stars  are  gleaming  on  high, 

And  hear  how  the  billows  are  moaning  in  sleep. 

On  the  low  lying  strand  by  the  surge-beaten  steep. 
They’re  moaning  forever  wherever  they  sweep. 

Ask  them  what  ails  them:  they  never  reply; 

They  moan,  and  so  sadly,  but  will  not  tell  whyl 
Why  does  your  poetry  sound  like  a sigh  ? 

The  waves  will  not  answer  you;  neither  shall  I. 


I 

Lines — 1875.  43 

Go  list  to  tlie  breeze  at  the  waning  of  day. 

When  it  passes  and  murmurs  Good-bye/^ 

The  dear  little  breeze — how  it  wishes  to  stay 
Where  the  flowers  are  in  bloom,  wh’ere  the  singing  birds 
play; 

How  it  sighs  when  it  flies  on  its  wearisome  way. 

Ask  it  what  ails  it:  it  will  not  reply; 

Its  voice  is  a sad  one,  it  never  told  why. 

Why  does  your  poetry  sound  like  a sigh? 

The  breeze  will  not  answer  you;  neither  shall  L 

Go  watch  the  wild  blasts  as  they  spring  from  their  lair, 

When  the  shout  of  the  storm  rends  the  sky; 

They  rush  o’er  the  earth  and  they  ride  thro’  the  air 
And  they  blight  with  their  breath  all  the  lovely  and 
fair,  . 

And  they  groan  like  the  ghosts  in  the  ^Hand  of  despair.” 

Ask  them  what  ails  them:  they  never  reply; 

Their  voices  are  mournful,  they  will  not  tell  why. 

Why  does  your  poetry  sound  like  a sigh  ? 

The  blasts  will  not  answer  you;  neither  shall  L 

Go  stand  on  the  rivulet’s  lily-fringed  side. 

Or  list  where  the  rivers  rush  by; 

The  streamlets  which  forest  trees  shadow  and  hide. 

And  the  rivers  that  roll  in  their  oceanward  tide. 

Are  moaning  forever  wherever  they  glide; 


I 

44  Liries — ^873. 

Ask  them  what  ails  them:  they  will  not  reply. 

On — sad  voiced — they  flow,  but  they  never  tell  why. 
Why  does  your  poetry  sound  like  a sigh  ? 

Barth’s  streams  will  not  answer  you;  neither  shall  L 

Go  list  to  the  voices  of  air,  earth  and  sea. 

And  the  voices  that  sound  in  the  sky; 

Their  songs  may  be  joyful  to  some,  but  to  me 
There’s  a sigh  in  each  chord  and  a sigh  in  each  key. 
And  thousands  of  sighs  swell  their  grand  melody. 
Ask  them  what  ails  them:  they  will  not  reply. 

They  sigh — sigh  forever — ^but  never  tell  why. 

Why  does  your  poetry  sound  like  a sigh  ? 

Their  lips  will  not  answer  you;  neither  shall  L 


A MEMORY. 


One  bright  memory  shines  like  a star 
In  the  sky  of  my  spirit  forever; 

And  over  my  pathway  it  flashes  afar 
A radiance  that  perishes  never. 

One  bright  memory — only  one; 

And  I walk  by  the  light  of  its  gleaming; 

It  brightens  my  days,  and  when  days  are  done 
It  shines  in  the  night  o’er  my  dreaming. 

One  bright  memory,  whose  golden  rays 
Illumine  the  gloom  of  my  sorrows. 

And  I know  that  its  lustre  will  gladden  my  gaze 
In  the  shadows  of  all  my  to-morrows. 

One  bright  memory:  when  I am  sad 
I lift  up  my  eyes  to  its  shining. 

And  the  clouds  pass  away,  and  my  spirit  grows  glad. 
And  my  heart  hushes  all  its  repining^ 

m 


46 


A Memory. 


One  bright  memory;  others  have  passed 
Back  into  the  shadows  forever; 

But  it,  far  and  fair,  bright  and  true  to  the  last, 

Sheds  a light  that  will  pass  away  never. 

Shine  on,  shine  always,  thou  star  of  my  days! 

And  when  Death’s  starless  night  gathers  o’er  me. 
Beam  brighter  than  ever  adown  on  my  gaze. 

And  light  the  dark  valley  before  me. 


RHYME. 


Oke  idle  day — 

A mile  or  so  of  sunlit  waves  off  shore-® 

In  a breezeless  bay. 

We  listless  lay — 

Our  boat  a dream  of  rest”  on  the  still  sea— 
And — ^we  were  four. 

The  wind  had  died 

That  all  day  long  sang  songs  unto  the  deep; 
It  was  eventide. 

And  far  and  wide 

Sweet  silence  crept  thro^  the  rifts  of  sound 
With  spells  of  sleep. 

Our  gray  sail  cast 

The  only  cloud  that  flecked  the  foamless  sea; 
And  weary  at  last 
Beside  the  mast 

One  fell  to  slumber  with  a dreamy  face» 

And — we  were  three. 


48 


Rhyme. 


No  ebb!  no  flow! 

V 

No  sound  I no  stir  in  tue  wide-wondrous  calm; 

In  the  sunset’s  glow 
The  shore  shelved  low 

And  snow-white,  from  far  ridges  screened  with  shade 
Of  drooping  palm. 

Our  hearts  were  hushed; 

All  light  seemed  melting  into  boundless  blue; 

But  the  west  was  flushed 
Where  sunset  blushed, 

Thro’  clouds  of  roses,  when  another  slept 
And — we  were  two. 

How  still  the  air! 

Not  e’en  a sea-bird  o’er  us  wave  ward  flew; 

Peace  rested  there! 

Light  everywhere! 

Nay!  Light!  some  shadows  fell  on  that  fair  scene. 
And — we  are  two. 

Some  shadows/  Where? 

No  matter  where!  all  shadows  are  not  seen; 

For  clouds  of  care 
To  skies  all  fair 

Will  sudden  rise  as  tears  to  shining  eyes, 

And  dim  their  sheen. 


Rhyme. 


49 


We  spake  no  word, 

Tho^  each  I ween  did  hear  the  other^s  souL 
Not  a wavelet  stirred. 

And  yet  we  heard 

The  loneliest  music  of  the  weariest  waves 
That  ever  roll. 

Yea!  Peace,  you  swayed 
Your  sceptre  jeweled  with  the  evening  light; 

And  then  you  said: 

‘^Here  falls  no  shade. 

Here  floats  no  sound,  and  all  the  seas  and  skies 
Sleep  calm  and  bright/’ 

Nay!  Peace,  not  so! 

The  wildest  waves  may  feel  thy  sceptre’s  spell 
And  fear  to  flow. 

But  to  and  fro — 

Beyond  their  reach  lone  waves  on  troubled  seas 
Will  sink  and  swell. 

No  word  e’en  yet: 

Were  our  eyes  speaking  while  they  watched  the  sky? 
And  in  the  sunset 
Infinite  regret 

Swept  sighing  from  the  skies  into  our  souls: 

I wonder  why? 


50 


Rhyme. 


A half  hour  passed — 

’Twas  more  than  half  an  age;  ’tis  ever  thus. 

Words  came  at  last, 

Fluttering  and  fast 

As  shadows  veiling  sunsets  in  the  souls 
Of  each  of  us. 

The  noiseless  night 

Sped  flitting  like  a ghost  where  waves  of  blue 
Lost  all  their  light. 

As  lips  once  bright 

Whence  smiles  have  fled;  we  or  the  wavelets  sighecL, 
And — we  were  two. 

The  day  had  gone: 

And  on  the  dim,  high  altar  of  the  dark. 

Stars,  one  by  one. 

Par,  faintly  shone; 

The  moonlight  trembled,  like  a mother’s  smile. 
Upon  our  bark. 

We  softly  spoke: 

The  waves  seemed  listening  on  the  lonely  sea. 

The  winds  awoke; 

Our  whispers  broke 

The  spell  of  silence;  and  two  eyes  unclosed. 

And — we  were  three. 


Rhyme* 


61 


*‘The  breeze  blows  fair/^ 

He  said;  ‘^the  waking  waves  set  towards  the  shore.” 
The  long  brown  hair 
Of  the  other  there. 

Who  slumbered  near  the  mast  with  dreamy  fac^ 
Stirred — we  were  four. 

That  starry  night, 

A mile  or  so  of  shadows  from  the  shore. 

Two  faces  bright 
With  laughter  light 

Shone  on  two  souls  like  stars  that  shine  on  shrines; 
And — W9  were  four. 

Over  the  reach 

Of  dazzling  waves  our  boat  like  wild  bird  flew; 

We  reached  the  beach, 

Nor  song,  nor  speech 
Shall  ever  tell  our  Sacramental  thought 
When — we  were  two. 

y,  OF  ILL  ! 


Or 


NOCTURNE. 


I 8IT  to-night  by  the  firelight. 

And  I look  at  the  glowing  fiam^ 
And  I see  in  the  bright  red  fiashes 
A Heart,  a Pace,  and  a Name. 


How  often  have  I seen  pictures 
Framed  in  the  firelight’s  blaze. 
Of  hearts,  of  names,  and  of  faces. 
And  scenes  of  remembered  days! 


How  often  have  1 found  poems 
In  the  crimson  of  the  coals, 

And  the  swaying  fiames  of  the  firelight 
Unrolled  such  golden  scrolls. 


And  my  eyes,  they  were  proud  to  read  them. 
In  letters  of  living  fiame. 

But  to-night,  in  the  fire,  I see  only 
One  Heart,  one  Face,  and  one  Name. 


Nocturne. 


53 


But  where  are  the  olden  pictures? 

And  where  are  the  olden  dreams? 
Has  a change  come  over  my  vision? 
Or  over  the  fire’s  bright  gleams? 


Not  over  my  vision,  surely; 

My  eyes — they  are  still  the  sam^ 
That  used  to  find  in  the  firelight 
So  many  a face  and  name. 


Not  over  the  firelight,  either. 

No  change  in  the  coals  or  bias© 
That  flicker  and  flash,  as  ruddy 
To-night  as  in  other  days. 


But  there  must  be  a change — I feel  it. 

To-night  not  an  old  picture  came; 
The  fire’s  bright  flames  only  painted 
One  Heart,  one  Face,  and  one  Name. 


Three  pictures?  No!  only  one  picture; 

The  Face  belongs  to  the  Name, 

And  the  Name  names  the  Heart  that  is  throbbing 
Just  back  of  the  beautiful  flame. 


54 


Nocturne. 


Who  said  it,  I wonder:  “All  faces 
Must  fade  in  the  light  of  but  one; 

The  soul,  like  the  earth,  may  have  many 
Horizons,  but  only  one  sun?” 

Who  dreamt  it?  Did  I?  If  I dreamt  it 
’Tis  true — every  name  passes  by 
Save  one;  the  sun  wears  many  cloudlets 
Of  gold,  but  has  only  one  sky. 


And  out  of  the  flames  have  they  faded. 

The  hearts  and  the  faces  of  yore? 

Have  they  sunk  ’neath  the  gray  of  the  ashea 
To  rise  to  my  vision  no  more? 


Yes,  surely,  or  else  I would  see  them 
To-night,  just  as  bright  as  of  old. 

In  the  white  of  the  coals’  silver  flashes, 
In  the  red  of  the  restless  flames’  gold. 


Do  you  say  I am  fickle  and  faithless  ? 

Else  why  are  the  old  pictures  gone? 
And  why  should  the  visions  of  many 
Melt  into  the  vision  of  one? 


Nocturne. 


65 


Nay!  list  to  the  voice  of  the  Heavens, 
‘^One  Eternal  alone  reigns  above/' 

Is  it  true?  and  all  else  are  but  idols. 

So  the  heart  can  have  only  one  Love? 


Only  one,  all  the  rest  are  but  idols, 

That  fall  from  their  shrines  soon  or  late. 
When  the  Love  that  is  Lord  of  the  temple. 
Comes  with  sceptre  and  crown  to  the  gate. 


To  be  faithless  oft  means  to  be  faithful. 
To  be  false  often  means  to  be  true; 

The  vale  that  loves  clouds  that  are  golden 
Forgets  them  for  skies  that  are  blue. 


To  forget  often  means  to  remember 
What  we  had  forgotten  too  long; 
The  fragrance  is  not  the  bright  flower. 
The  echo  is  not  the  sweet  song. 


Am  I dreaming?  No,  there  is  the  firelight^ 
Gaze  I ever  so  long,  all  the  same 
I only  can  see  in  its  glowing 
A Heart,  a Face,  and  a Nama 


56 


Nocturne. 


Farewell!  all  ye  hearts,  names,  and  faces! 

Only  ashes  now  under  the  blaze, 

Ye  never  again  will  smile  on  me. 

For  Fm  touching  the  end  of  my  days. 


And  the  beautiful  fading  firelight 
Paints,  now,  with  a pencil  of  fiame, 
Three  pictures — ^yet  only  one  picture- 
A Heart,  a Face,  and  a Name. 


THE  OLD  YEAR  AND  THE  NEW. 


How  swift  they  go, 

Life’s  many  years, 

With  their  winds  of  woe 
And  their  storms  of  tears. 

And  their  darkest  of  nights  whose  shadowy  slopes 
Are  lit  with  the  flashes  of  starriest  hopes. 

And  their  sunshiny  days  in  whose  calm  heavens  loom 
The  clouds  of  the  tempest — the  shadows  of  the  gloom! 

And  ah!  we  pray 
With  a grief  so  drear. 

That  the  years  may  stay 
When  their  graves  are  near; 

Tho^  the  brows  of  To-morrows  be  radiant  and  bright. 
With  love  and  with  beauty,  with  life  and  with  light. 
The  dead  hearts  of  Yesterdays,  cold  on  the  bier. 

To  the  hearts  that  survive  them,  are  evermore  dear. 

For  the  hearts  so  true 
To  each  Old  Year  cleaves; 

Tho^  the  hand  of  the  New 
Flowery  garlands  weaves. 


58 


The  Old  Year  and  the  New. 


But  the  flowers  of  the  future,  tho’  fragrant  and  fair, 
With  the  past’s  withered  leaflets  may  never  compare; 
For  dear  is  each  dead  leaf — and  dearer  each  thorn — 

In  the  wreaths  which  the  brows  of  our  past  years  have 
worn.  ^ 


Yea!  men  will  cling 
With  a love  to  the  last. 

And  wildly  fling 
Their  arms  round  their  past! 

As  the  vine  that  clings  to  the  oak  that  falls. 

As  the  ivy  twines  round  the  crumbled  walls ; 

For  the  dust  of  the  past  some  hearts  higher  prize 
Than  the  stars  that  flash  out  from  the  future’s  bright 
skies. 


And  why  not  so? 

1 he  old,  old  Years, 

They  knew  and  they  know 
All  our  hopes  and  fears; 

We  walked  by  their  side,  and  we  told  them  each  grief, 
A.nd  they  kissed  off  our  tears  while  they  whispered 
relief; 

And  the  stories  of  hearts  that  may  not  be  revealed 
In  the  hearts  of  the  dead  years  are  buried  and  sealed. 


The  Old  Year  and  the  New. 


59 


Let  the  New  Year  sing 
At  the  Old  Year’s  grave: 

Will  the  New  Year  bring 
What  the  Old  Year  gave? 

Ah!  the  Stranger-Year  trips  over  the  snows. 

And  his  brow  is  wreathed  with  many  a rose: 

But  how  many  thorns  do  the  roses  conceal 

Which  the  roses,  when  withered,  shall  so  soon  reveal  r 

# 

Let  the  New  Year  smile 
When  the  Old  Year  dies; 

In  how  short  a while 
Shall  the  smiles  be  sighs? 

Yea!  Stranger- Year,  thou  hast  many  a charm, 

And  thy  face  is  fair  and  thy  greeting  warm, 

But,  dearer  than  thou — in  his  shroud  of  snows— 

Is  the  furrowed  face  of  the  Year  that  goes. 

Yea!  bright  New  Year, 

O’er  all  the  earth. 

With  song  and  cheer. 

They  will  hail  thy  birth; 

They  will  trust  thy  words  in  a single  hour. 

They  will  love  thy  face,  they  will  laud  thy  power; 

For  the  Neto  has  charms  which  the  Old  has  not. 

And  the  Stranger’s  face  makes  the  Friend’s  forgot 


BRINGS  FLAG. 


Unroll  Erin’s  flag!  fling  its  folds  to  the  breeze! 

Let  it  float  o’er  the  land,  let  it  flash  o’er  the  seas! 

Lift  it  out  of  the  dust — let  it  wave  as  of  yore, 

When  its  chiefs  with  their  clans  stood  around  it  and 
swore 

That  never!  no!  never!  while  God  gave  them  life. 

And  they  had  an  arm  and  a sword  for  the  strife, 

That  never!  no!  never!  that  banner  should  yield 
As  long  as  the  heart  of  a Celt  was  its  shield; 

While  the  hand  of  a Celt  had  a weapon  to  wield. 

And  his  last  drop  of  blood  was  unshed  on  the  fleld. 

Lift  it  up!  wave  it  high!  ’tis  as  bright  as  of  old! 

Not  a stain  on  its  green,  not  a blot  on  its  gold, 

Tho’  the  woes  and  the  wrongs  of  three  hundred  long 
years 

Have  drenched  Erin’s  Sunburst  with  blood  and  with 
tears! 

Though  the  clouds  of  oppression  enshroud  it  in  gloom, 
And  around  it  the  thunders  of  Tyranny  boom. 

(60) 


’Tis  the  sunburst  resplendent — far  flasliing  on  high  ! 
Erin’s  dark  night  is  waning,  her  day  dawn  is  nigh ! 


Erin^^  Flpg. 


6J 


Look  aloft!  look  aloft!  lo!  the  clouds  drifting  by, 
There’s  a gleam  through  the  gloom,  there’s  a light  in 
the  sky, 

’Tis  the  Sunburst  resplendent — far,  flashing  on  high! 
Erin’s  dark  night  is  waning,  her  day-dawn  is  nigh! 


Lift  it  up!  lift  it  up!  the  old  Banner  of  Green! 

The  blood  of  its  sons  has  but  brightened  its  sheen; 
What  though  the  tyrant  has  trampled  it  down. 

Are  its  folds  not  emblazoned  with  deeds  of  renown? 
What  though  for  ages  it  droops  in  the  dust. 

Shall  it  droop  thus  forever?  No!  no!  God  is  just! 
Take  it  up!  take  it  up!  from  the  tyrant’s  foul  tread, 
Let  him  tear  the  Green  Flag — ^we  will  snatch  its  last 
shred, 

And  beneath  it  we’ll  bleed  as  our  forefathers  bled. 

And  we’ll  vow  by  the  dust  in  the  graves  of  our  dead. 
And  we’ll  swear  by  the  blood  which  the  Briton  has  shed. 
And  we’ll  vow  by  the  wrecks  which  through  Erin  he 
spread. 

And  we’ll  swear  by  the  thousands  who,  famished,  unfed, 
Died  down  in  the  ditches,  wild-howling  for  bread. 

And  we’ll  vow  by  our  heroes,  whose  spirits  have  fled. 
And  we’ll  swear  by  the  bones  in  each  cofflnless  bed, 
That  we’ll  battle  the  Briton  through  danger  and  dread; 


62 


Erin^s  i uig. 


That  well  cling  to  the  cause  which  we  glory  to  wed, 
^Til  the  gleam  of  our  steel  and  the  shock  of  our  lead 
Shall  prove  to  our  foe  that  we  meant  what  we  said — 
That  well  lift  up  the  green,  and  well  tear  down  the  red! 

Lift  up  the  Green  Flag!  oh!  it  wants  to  go  home, 

Full  long  has  its  lot  been  to  wander  and  roam, 

It  has  followed  the  fate  of  its  sons  o’er  the  world. 

But  its  folds,  like  their  hopes,  are  not  faded  nor  furled; 
Like  a weary-winged  bird,  to  the  East  and  the  West, 

It  has  flitted  and  fled — ^but  it  never  shall  rest, 

'Til,  pluming  its  pinions,  it  sweeps  o’er  the  main. 

And  speeds  to  the  shores  of  its  old  home  again. 

Where  its  fetterless  folds  o’er  each  mountain  and  plain 
Shall  wave  with  a glory  that  never  shall  wane. 

Take  it  up!  take  it  up!  bear  it  back  from  afar! 

That  banner  must  blaze  ’mid  the  lightnings  of  war; 
Lay  your  hands  on  its  folds,  lift  your  gaze  to  the  sky. 
And  swear  that  you’ll  bear  it  triumphant  or  die. 

And  shout  to  the  clans  scattered  far  o’er  the  earth 
To  join  in  the  march  to  the  land  of  their  birth; 

And  wherever  the  Exiles,  ’neath  heaven’s  broad  dome, 
Have  been  fated  to  suffer,  to  sorrow  and  roam. 

They’ll  bound  on  the  sea,  and  away  o’er  the  foam. 
They’ll  sail  to  the  music  of  Sweet  HomeT* 


THE  SWORD  OF  ROBERT  LEE. 


Foeth  from  its  scabbard,  pure  and  bright, 
Flashed  the  sword  of  Lee! 

Far  in  the  front  of  the  deadly  fight, 

High  o’er  the  brave  in  the  cause  of  Eight, 
Its  stainless  sheen,  like  a beacon  light, 

Led  us  to  Victory. 

Out  of  its  scabbard,  where,  full  long. 

It  slumbered  peacefully, 

Eoused  from  its  rest  by  the  battle’s  song. 
Shielding  the  feeble,  smiting  the  strong. 
Guarding  the  right,  avenging  the  wrong, 
Gleamed  the  sword  of  Lee. 

Forth  from  its  scabbard,  high  in  air 
Beneath  Virginia’s  sky — 

And  they  who  saw  it  gleaming  there. 

And  knew  who  bore  it,  knelt  to  swear 
That  where  that  swoid  led  they  would  dare 
To  follow — and  to  die. 


(63) 


64 


The  Sword  of  Robert  Lee^ 


Out  of  its  scabbard!  Never  hand 
Waved  sword  from  stain  as  free, 

Nor  purer  sword  led  braver  band, 

Nor  braver  bled  for  a brighter  land. 

Nor  brighter  land  had  a cause  so  grand. 
Nor  cause  a chief  like  Lee! 

Torth  from  its  scabbard!  How  we  prayed 
That  sword  might  victor  be; 

And  when  our  triumph  was  delayed. 

And  many  a heart  grew  sore  afraid. 

We  still  hoped  on  while  gleamed  the  bladd 
Of  noble  Robert  Lee. 

Forth  from  its  scabbard  all  in  vain 
Bright  flashed  the  sword  of  Lee; 

’Tis  shrouded  now  in  its  sheath  again. 

It  sleeps  the  sleep  of  our  noble  slain. 
Defeated,  yet  without  a stain. 

Proudly  and  peacefully. 


LIFE. 


A BABY  played  with  the  surplice  sleeve 
Of  a gentle  priest;  while  in  accents  low. 

The  sponsors  murmured  the  grand  I believe/^ 
And  the  priest  bade  the  mystic  waters  to  flow, 
In  the  name  of  the  Father,  and  the  Son, 

And  Holy  Spirit — Three  in  One. 

Spotless  as  a lily’s  leaf. 

Whiter  than  the  Christmas  snow; 

Not  a sign  of  sin  or  grief, 

And  the  babe  laughed  sweet  and  low. 

A smile  flitted  over  the  baby’s  face: 

Or  was  it  the  gleam  of  its  angel’s  wing 
Just  passing  then,  and  leaving  a trace 
Of  its  presence  as  it  soared  to  sing? 

A hymn  when  words  and  waters  win 
To  Grace  and  life  a child  of  sin. 

Not  an  outward  sign  or  token, 

That  a child  was  saved  from  woe, 

But  the  bonds  of  sin  were  broken. 

And  the  babe  laughed  sweet  and  low. 


(66) 


66 


Life. 


A cloud  rose  up  to  the  mother’s  eyes. 

And  out  of  the  cloud  griefs  rain  fell  fast; 

Came  the  baby’s  smiles,  and  the  mother’s  sighs^ 
Out  of  the  future,  or  the  past? 

Ah!  gleam  and  gloom  must  ever  meet. 

And  gall  must  mingle  with  the  sweet. 

Yea,  upon  the  baby’s  laughter 
Trickled  tears:  ’tis  ever  so — 

Mothers  dread  the  dark  hereafter; 

But  the  babe  laughed  sweet  and  low. 

And  the  years  like  waves  broke  on  the  shore 
Of  the  mother’s  heart,  and  her  baby’s  life; 

But  her  lone  heart  drifted  away  before 
Her  little  boy  knew  an  hour  of  strife; 

Drifted  away  on  a Summer’s  eve. 

Ere  the  orphaned  child  knew  how  to  grieve. 

Her  humble  grave  was  gently  made 
Where  roses  bloomed  in  Summer’s  glow; 

The  wild  birds  sang  where  her  heart  was  laid, 
And  her  boy  laughed  sweet  and  low. 

He  drifted  away  from  his  mother’s  grave, 

Like  a fragile  flower  on  a great  stream’s  tide, 

'Til  he  heard  the  moan  of  the  mighty  wave, 

That  welcomed  the  stream  to  the  ocean  wide. 


Life. 


67 


Out  from  the  shore  and  over  the  deep, 

He  sailed  away  and  learned  to  weep. 

Furrowed  grew  the  face  once  fair. 

Under  storms  of  human  woe; 

Silvered  grew  the  dark  brown  hair. 

And  he  wailed  so  sad  and  low. 

The  years  swept  on  as  erst  they  swept. 

Bright  wavelets  once,  dark  billows  now. 
Wherever  he  sailed  he  ever  wept, 

A cloud  hung  over  the  darkened  brow — 
Over  the  deep  and  into  the  dark. 

But  no  one  knew  where  sank  his  bark. 

Wild  roses  watched  his  mother’s  tomb, 
The  world  still  laughed,  ’tis  ever  so— 
God  only  knows  the  baby’s  doom. 

That  laughed  so  sweet  and  low. 


A LALGH—AND  A MOANi 


The  brook,  that  down  the  Valley 
So  musically  drips, 

Flowed  never  half  so  brightly 
As  the  light  laugh  from  her  lips. 

Her  face  was  like  the  lily. 

Her  heart  was  like  the  rose. 

Her  eyes  were  like  a heaven. 

Where  the  sunlight  always  glows. 

She  trod  the  earth  so  lightly 
Her  feet  touched  not  a thorn ; 

Her  words  wore  all  the  brightness 
Of  a young  life’s  happy  morn. 

Along  her  laughter  rippled 
The  melody  of  joy; 

She  drank  from  every  chalice. 

And  tasted  no  alloy. 


A Laugh — And  a Moan. 


69 


Her  life  was  all  a laughter. 

Her  days  were  all  a smile, 

Her  heart  was  pure  and  happy. 

She  knew  not  gloom  nor  guile. 

She  rested  on  the  bosom 
Of  her  mother,  like  a flower 
That  blooms  far  in  a valley 
Where  no  storm-clouds  ever  lower. 

And — Merry  I merry!  merry!" 

Eang  the  bells  of  every  hour, 

And — “Happy!  happy!  happy!" 

In  her  valley  laughed  the  flower. 

There  was  not  a sign  of  shadow, 
There  was  not  a tear  nor  thorn, 
And  the  sweet  voice  of  her  laughter 
Filled  with  melody  the  morn. 

« « 

Years  passed — ^’twas  long,  long  after. 
And  I saw  a face  at  prayer; 

There  was  not  a sign  of  laughter. 
There  was  every  sign  of  care. 


A Laugh — And  a Moan. 


For  the  sunshine  all  had  faded 
From  the  valley  and  the  flower. 

And  the  once  fair  face  was  shaded 
In  lifers  lonely  evening  hour. 

And  the  lips  that  smiled  with  laughter 
In  the  valley  of  the  morn, 

In  the  valley  of  the  evening 
They  were  pale  and  sorrow-worn. 

And  I read  the  old,  old  lesson 
In  her  face  and  in  her  tears. 

While  she  sighed  amid  the  shadows 
Of  the  sunset  of  her  years. 

All  the  rippling  streams  of  laughter 
From  our  hearts  and  lips  that  flow. 
Shall  be  frozen,  cold  years  after. 

Into  icicles  of  woe* 


IN  MEMORY  OF  MY  BROTHER. 


Youkg  as  the  youngest  who  donned  the  Gray, 
True  as  the  truest  that  wore  it, 

Brave  as  the  bravest  he  marched  away, 

(Hot  tears  on  the  cheeks  of  his  mother  lay). 
Triumphant  waved  our  flag  one  day — 

He  fell  in  the  front  before  it. 

Firm  as  the  flrmest,  where  duty  led. 

He  hurried  without  a falter; 

Bold  as  the  boldest  he  fought  and  bled. 

And  the  day  was  won — but  the  fleld  was  red — 
And  the  blood  of  his  fresh  young  heart  was  shed 
On  his  country’s  hallowed  altar. 

On  the  trampled  breast  of  the  battle  plain 
Where  the  foremost  ranks  had  wrestled. 

On  his  pale,  pure  face  not  a mark  of  pain, 

(His  mother  dreams  they  will  meet  again). 

The  fairest  form  amid  all  the  slain, 

Like  a child  asleep  he  nestled. 

(71) 


72 


In  Memory  of  My  Brother. 


In  the  solemn  shades  of  the  wood  that  swept 
The  field  where  his  comrades  found  him, 
They  buried  him  there — and  the  big  tears  crept 
Into  strong  men’s  eyes  that  had  seldom  wept. 
(His  mother — God  pity  her — smiled  and  slept, 
Dreaming  her  arms  were  around  him). 

A grave  in  the  woods  with  the  grass  o’ergrown, 
A grave  in  the  heart  of  his  mother — 

His  clay  in  the  one  lies  lifeless  and  lone; 

There  is  not  a name,  there  is  not  a stone. 

And  only  the  voice  of  the  winds  maketh  moan 
O’er  the  grave  where  never  a fiower  is  strewn 
But — his  memory  lives  in  the  other. 


^OUT  OF  THE  DEPTHSr 


Lost!  Lost!  Lost! 

The  cry  went  up  from  a sea — 

The  waves  were  wild  with  an  awful  wrath, 

Not  a light  shone  down  on  the  lone  ship’s  path; 
The  clouds  hung  low: 

Lost!  Lost!  Lost! 

Kose  wild  from  the  hearts  of  the  tempest-tossed. 


Lost!  Lost!  LostI 
The  cry  floated  over  the  waves — 

Far  over  the  pitiless  waves; 

It  smote  on  the  dark  and  it  rended  the  clouds; 

The  billows  below  them  were  weaving  white  shrouds 
Out  of  the  foam  of  the  surge, 

And  the  wind-voices  chanted  a dirge: 

Lost!  Lost!  Lost! 

Wailed  wilder  the  lips  of  the  tempest- tossed. 


74 


^^Out  of  the  Depths 


, Lost!  Lost!  Lost! 

Not  the  sign  of  a hope  was  nigh. 

In  the  sea,  in  the  air,  or  the  sky; 

And  the  lifted  faces  were  wan  and  white. 

There  was  nothing  without  them  but  storm  and  night, 
And  nothing  within  but  fear* 

But  far  to  a Father’s  ear: 

Lost!  Lost!  Lost! 

Floated  the  wail  of  the  tempest-tossed. 


Lost!  Lost!  Lost! 

Out  of  the  depths  of  the  sea — 

Out  of  the  night  and  the  sea; 

And  the  waves  and  the  winds  of  the  storm  were  hushed, 
And  the  sky  with  the  gleams  of  the  stars  was  flushed. 
Saved!  Saved!  Saved! 

And  a calm  and  a joyous  cry 
Floated  up  through  the  starry  sky. 

In  the  dark — in  the  storm — ‘‘^Our  Father”  is  nigh 


A THOUGHT. 


The  summer  rose  the  sun  has  flushed 
With  crimson  glory,  may  be  sweet; 

^Tis  sweeter  when  its  leaves  are  crushed 
Beneath  the  winds’  and  tempests’  feet. 

The  rose  that  waves  upon  its  tree, 

In  life  sheds  perfume  all  around; 

More  sweet  the  perfume  floats  to  me 
Of  roses  trampled  on  the  ground. 

The  waving  rose  with  every  breath 
Scents  carelessly  the  summer  air; 

The  wounded  rose  bleeds  forth  in  death 
A sweetness  far  more  rich  and  rare. 

It  is  a truth  beyond  our  ken — 

And  yet  a truth  that  all  may  read— 

It  is  with  roses  as  with  men. 

The  sweetest  hearts  are  those  that  bleed. 

The  flower  which  Bethlehem  saw  bloom 
Out  of  a heart  all  full  of  grace. 

Gave  never  forth  its  full  perfume 
Until  the  cross  became  its  vase. 


MARCH  OF  TEE  DEATHLESS  DEAD. 


Gather  the  sacred  dust 

Of  the  warriors  tried  and  true, 

Who  bore  the  flag  of  a Nation’s  trust 
And  fell  in  a cause,  though  lost,  still  just 
And  died  for  me  and  you. 

Gather  them  one  and  all, 

From  the  private  to  the  chief; 

Come  they  from  hovel  or  princely  hall, 
They  fell  for  us,  and  for  them  should  fall 
The  tears  of  a Nation’s  grief. 

Gather  the  corpses  strewn 
O’er  many  a battle  plain; 

From  many  a grave  that  lies  so  lone. 
Without  a name  and  without  a stone. 
Gather  the  Southern  slain. 

We  care  not  whence  they  came. 

Dear  in  their  lifeless  clay! 

Whether  unknown,  or  known  to  fame. 
Their  cause  and  country  still  the  same; 
They  died — and  wore  the  Gray. 

176) 


March  of  the  Deathless  Dead. 


77 


Wherever  the  brave  have  died, 

They  should  not  rest  apart; 

Living,  they  struggled  side  by  side, 

Why  should  the  hand  of  Death  divide 
A single  heart  from  heart? 

Gather  their  scattered  clay. 

Wherever  it  may  rest; 

Just  as  they  marched  to  the  bloody  fray. 

Just  as  they  fell  on  the  battle  day. 

Bury  them  breast  to  breast. 

The  foeman  need  not  dread 

This  gathering  of  the  brave; 

Without  sword  or  flag,  and  with  soundless  tread. 

We  muster  once  more  our  deathless  dead. 

Out  of  each  lonely  grave. 

The  foeman  need  not  frown. 

They  all  are  powerless  now; 

We  gather  them  here  and  we  lay  them  down. 

And  tears  and  prayers  are  the  only  crown 
We  bring  to  wreathe  each  brow. 

And  the  dead  thus  meet  the  dead. 

While  the  living  o’er  them  weep; 

And  the  men  by  Lee  and  Stonewall  led, 

And  the  hearts  that  once  togetiier  bleu. 

Together  still  shall  sleep. 


REUNITED. 


[written  after  the  yellow  fever  epidemic  of  1878.] 

Purer  than  thy  own  white  snow, 

Nobler  than  thy  mountains’  height; 

Deeper  than  the  ocean’s  flow, 

Stronger  than  thy  own  proud  might; 

0 Northland!  to  thy  sister  land. 

Was  late  thy  mercy’s  generous  deed  and  grand. 

Nigh  twice  ten  years  the  sword  was  sheathed: 

Its  mist  of  green  o’er  battle  plain 
For  nigh  two  decades  Spring  had  breathed; 

And  yet  the  crimson  life-blood  stain 
From  passive  swards  had  never  paled. 

Nor  flelds,  where  all  were  brave  and  some  had  failed 

Between  the  Northland,  bride  of  snow. 

And  Southland,  brightest  sun’s  fair  bride. 

Swept,  deepening  ever  in  its  flow. 

The  stormy  wake,  in  war’s  dark  tide: 

No  hand  might  clasp  across  the  tears 

And  blood  and  anguish  of  four  deathless  years. 


78 


Reunited. 


79 


When  Summer,  like  a rose  in  bloom, 

Had  blossomed  from  the  bud  of  Spring, 

Oh ! who  could  deem  the  dews  of  doom 
Upon  the  blushing  lips  could  cling? 

And  who  could  believe  its  fragrant  light 

Would  e’er  be  freighted  with  the  breath  of  blight? 

Yet  o’er  the  Southland  crept  the  spell. 

That  e’en  from  out  its  brightness  spread, 

And  prostrate,  powerless,  she  fell, 

Kachel-like,  amid  her  dead. 

Her  bravest,  fairest,  purest,  best. 

The  waiting  grave  would  welcome  as  its  gues 

The  Northland,  strong  in  love,  and  great, 

Forgot  the  stormy  days  of  strife; 

Forgot  that  souls  with  dreams  of  hate 
Or  un  forgiveness  e’er  were  rife. 

Forgotten  was  each  thought  and  hushed  ; 

Save — she  was  generous  and  her  foe  was  crushed. 

No  hand  might  clasp,  from  land  to  land; 

Yea!  there  was  one  to  bridge  the  tide; 

For  at  the  touch  of  Mercy’s  hand 

The  North  and  South  stood  side  by  side: 

The  Bride  of  Snow,  the  Bride  of  Sun, 

In  Charity’s  espousals  are  made  one. 


80 


Reunited. 


^^Thou  givest  back  my  sons  again/^ 

The  Southland  to  the  Northland  cries; 

‘‘For  all  my  dead,  on  battle  plain, 

Thou  biddest  my  dying  now  uprise: 

I still  my  sobs,  I cease  my  tears. 

And  thou  hast  recompensed  my  anguished  years. 

“Blessings  on  thine  every  wave. 

Blessings  on  thine  every  shore. 

Blessings  that  from  sorrow  save. 

Blessings  giving  more  and  more. 

For  all  thou  gavest  thy  sister  land, 

0 Northland,  in  thy  generous  deed  and  grand/^ 


A MEMORY. 


Adowk  the  valley  dripped  a stream. 
White  lilies  drooped  on  either  side; 
Our  hearts,  in  spite  of  us,  will  dream 
In  such  a place  at  eventide. 


Bright  wavelets  wove  the  scarf  of  blue 
That  well  became  the  valley  fair. 
And  grassy  fringe  of  greenest  hue 
Hung  round  its  borders  everywhere. 


And  where  the  stream,  in  wayward  whirls. 
Went  winding  in  and  winding  out. 

Lay  shells,  that  wore  the  look  of  pearls 
Without  their  pride,  all  strewn  about. 


And  here  and  there  along  the  strand. 
Where  some  ambitious  wave  had  strayed, 
Rose  little  monuments  of  sand 
As  frail  as  those  by  mortals  made. 

(81j| 


A Memory. 


And  many  a flower  was  blooming  there 
In  beauty,  yet  without  a name. 

Like  humble  hearts  that  often  bear 
The  gifts,  but  not  the  palm  of  fame. 


The  rainbow’s  tints  could  never  vie 
With  all  the  colors  that  they  wore; 

While  bluer  than  the  bluest  sky. 

The  stream  flowed  on  ’tween  shore  and  shore. 


And  on  the  height,  and  down  the  side 
Of  either  hill  that  hid  the  place. 

Rose  elms  in  all  the  stately  pride 
Of  youthful  strength  and  ancient  race. 


While  here  and  there  the  trees  between — 
Bearing  the  scars  of  battle-shocks. 

And  frowning  wrathful — might  be  seen 
The  moss-veiled  faces  of  the  rocks. 


And  round  the  rocks  crept  flowered  vines. 
And  clomb  the  trees  that  towered  high — 
The  type  of  a lofty  thought  that  twines 
Around  a truth — to  touch  the  sky. 


A Memory. 


83 


And  to  that  vale,  from  first  of  May 
Until  the  last  of  August  went, 
Beauty,  the  exile,  came  each  day 
In  all  her  charms,  to  cast  her  tent. 


^Twas  there,  one  long-gone  August  day, 
I wandered  down  the  valley  fair: 

The  spell  has  never  passed  away 
That  fell  upon  my  spirit  there. 


The  summer  sunset  glorified 
The  clouded  face  of  dying  day. 
Which  fiung  a smile  upon  the  tid? 
And  lilies,  ere  he  passed  away. 


And  o’er  the  valley’s  grassy  slopes 
There  fell  an  evanescent  sheen. 

That  fiashed  and  faded,  like  the  hopes 
That  haunt  us  of  what  might  have  been. 


And  rock  and  tree  flung  back  the  light 
Of  all  the  sunsets  golden  gems. 

As  if  it  were  beneath  their  right 
To  wear  such  borrowed  diadems. 


84 


A Memory. 


Low  in  the  west  gleam  after  gleam 
Glowed  faint  and  fainter,  till  the  last 
Made  the  dying  day  a living  dream, 

To  last  as  long  as  life  shall  last. 


And  in  the  arches  of  the  trees 
The  wild  birds  slept  with  folded  wing. 
And  e’en  the  lips  of  the  summer  breeze. 
That  sang  all  day,  had  ceased  to  sing. 


And  all  was  silent,  save  the  rill 
That  rippled  round  the  lilies’  feet. 

And  sang,  while  stillness  grew  more  still 
To  listen  to  the  murmur  sweet. 


And  now  and  then  it  surely  seemed 
The  little  stream  was  laughing  low. 
As  if  its  sleepy  wavelets  dreamed 
Such  dreams  as  only  children  know. 


So  still  that  not  the  faintest  breath 
Did  stir  the  shadows  in  the  air; 

It  would  have  seemed  the  home  of  Death, 
Had  I not  felt  Life  sleeping  there. 


A Memory. 


85 


And  slow  and  soft,  and  soft  and  slow. 
From  darkling  earth  and  darkened  sky. 
Wide  wings  of  gloom  waved  to  and  fro. 
And  spectral  shadows  flitted  by. 


And  then,  methought,  upon  the  sward 
I saw — or  was  it  starlight’s  ray? 

Or  angels  come  to  watch  and  guard 
The  valley  till  the  dawn  of  day? 


Is  every  lower  life  the  ward 
Of  spirits  more  divinely  wrought? 
’Tis  sweet  to  believe  ’tis  God’s,  and  hard 
To  think  ’tis  but  a poet’s  thought. 


But  God’s  or  poet’s  thought,  I ween 
My  senses  did  not  fail  me,  when 
I saw  veiled  angels  watch  that  scene 
And  guard  its  sleep,  as  they  guard  men. 


Sweet  sang  the  stream  as  on  it  pressed, 
As  sorrow  sings  a heart  to  sleep; 

As  a mother  sings  one  child  to  rest, 
And  for  the  dead  one  still  will  weep. 


86 


A Memory. 


I walked  adown  the  singing  stream^ 
The  lilies  slept  on  either  side; 

My  heart — it  could  not  help  but  dream 
At  eve,  and  after  eventide. 


Ah!  dreams  of  such  a lofty  reach 

With  more  than  earthly  fancies  fraught. 
That  not  the  strongest  wings  of  speech 
Could  ever  touch  their  lowest  thought. 


Dreams  of  the  Bright,  the  Fair,  the  Far — 
Heart-fancies  flashing  Heaven’s  hue — 
That  swept  around,  as  sweeps  a star 
The  boundless  orbit  of  the  True. 


Yea!  dreams  all  free  from  earthly  taint. 
Where  human  passion  played  no  part. 
As  pure  as  thoughts  that  thrill  a saint. 
Or  hunt  an  archangelic  heart. 


Ah!  dreams  that  did  not  rise  from  sense. 
And  rose  too  high  to  stoop  to  it. 

And  framed  aloft  like  frankincense 
In  censers  round  the  inflnite. 


A Memory. 


87 


Yea!  dreams  that  vied  with  angels^  flight! 

And,  soaring,  bore  my  heart  away 
Beyond  the  far  star-bounds  of  night, 

Unto  the  everlasting  day. 


How  long  I strolled  beside  the  stream 
I do  not  know,  nor  may  I say; 

But  when  the  poet  ceased  to  dream 
The  priest  went  on  his  knees  to  pray. 

^ felt  as  sure  a Seraph  feels. 

When  in  some  golden  hour  of  grace 

God  smiles,  and  suddenly  reveals 
A new,  strange  Glory  in  His  Face. 

Ah!  star-lit  valley ! Lilies  white! 

The  poet  dreamed — ye  slumbered  deep! 

But  when  the  priest  knelt  down  that  night 
And  prayed,  why  woke  ye  from  your  sleep? 

♦ ♦ * 

The  stream  sang  down  the  valley  fair, 

I saw  the  wakened  lilies  nod, 

I knew  they  heard  me  whisper  there: 

‘^How  beautiful  art  Thou,  my  God!^ 


AT  LAST. 


Ikto  a temple  vast  and  dim. 

Solemn  and  vast  and  dim, 

Just  when  the  last  sweet  Vesper  Hymn 
Was  floating  far  away. 

With  eyes  that  tabernacled  tears — 

Her  heart  the  home  of  tears — 

And  cheeks  wan  with  the  woes  of  years, 
A woman  went  one  day. 

And,  one  by  one,  adown  the  aisles. 

Ad  own  the  long,  lone  aisles, 

Their  faces  bright  with  holy  smiles 
That  follow  after  prayer. 

The  worshipers  in  silence  passed. 

In  silence  slowly  passed  away; 

The  woman  knelt  until  the  last 
Had  left  her  lonely  there. 

A holy  hush  came  o’er  the  place. 

O’er  the  holy  place. 

The  shadows  kissed  her  woe-worn  face. 
Her  forehead  touched  the  floor; 

The  wreck  that  drifted  thro’  the  years— 
Sin-driven  thro’  the  years — 

Was  floating  o’er  the  tide  of  tears. 

To  Mercy’s  golden  shore. 


.Aif  Last* 


89 


Her  lips  were  sealed,  they  could  not  pray. 
They  sighed,  but  could  not  pray, 

All  words  of  prayer  had  died  away 
From  them  long  years  ago; 

But  ah ! from  out  her  eyes  there  rose— 
Sad  from  her  eyes  there  rose — 

The  prayer  of  tears,  which  swiftest  goea 
To  Heaven — winged  with  woe. 

With  weary  tears,  her  weary  eyes. 

Her  joyless,  weary  eyes. 

Wailed  forth  a rosary;  and  her  sighs 
And  sobs  strung  all  the  beads; 

The  while  before  her  spirit’s  gaze — 

Her  contrite  spirit’s  gaze — 

Moved  all  the  mysteries  of  her  days. 

And  histories  of  her  deeds. 

Still  as  a shadow,  while  she  wept. 

So  desolately  wept. 

Up  thro’  the  long,  lone  aisle  she  crept 
Unto  an  altar  fair; 

Mother!” — her  pale  lips  said  no  more — 
Could  say  no  more — 

The  wreck,  at  last,  reached  Mercy’s  shores 
For  Mary’s  shrine  was  there. 


A LAND  WITHOUT  RUINS. 


“A  land  without  ruins  is  a land  without  memories— a land  with- 
out memories  is  a land  without  history.  A land  that  wears  a laurel 
crown  may  be  fair  to  see ; but  twine  a few  sad  cypress  leaves  around 
the  brow  of  any  land,  and  be  that  land  barren,  beautiless  and  bleak, 
it  becomes  lovely  in  its  consecrated  coronet  of  sorrow,  and  it  wins 
the  sympathy  of  the  heart  and  of  history.  Crowns  of  roses  fade- 
crowns  of  thorns  endure.  Calvaries  and  crucifixions  take  deepest 
hold  of  humanity— the  triumphs  of  might  are  transient— they  pass 
and  are  forgotten— the  sufiferings  of  right  are  graven  deepest  on 
the  chronicle  of  nations.” 

Yes,  give  me  the  land  where  the  ruins  are  spread, 

And  the  living  tread  light  on  the  hearts  of  the  dead; 
Yes,  give  me  a land  that  is  blest  by  the  dust. 

And  bright  with  the  deeds  of  the  down-trodden  just. 
Yes,  give  me  the  land  where  the  battle’s  red  blast 
Has  flashed  to  the  future  the  fame  of  the  past; 

Yes,  give  me  the  land  that  hath  legends  and  lays 
That  tell  of  the  memories  of  long  vanished  days; 

Yes,  give  me  a land  that  hath  story  and  song! 

Enshrine  the  strife  of  the  right  with  the  wrong! 

Yes,  give  me  a land  with  a grave  in  each  spot, 

And  names  in  the  graves  that  shall  not  be  forgot; 

Yes,  give  me  the  land  of  the  wreck  and  the  tomb; 
There  is  grandeur  in  graves — there  is  glory  in  gloom; 
For  out  of  the  gloom  future  brightness  is  born. 

As  after  the  night  comes  the  sunrise  of  morn ; 

And  the  graves  of  the  dead  with  the  grass  overgrown 
May  yet  form  the  footstool  of  liberty’s  throne. 

And  each  single  wreck  in  the  war-path  of  might, 

Shall  yet  be  a rock  in  the  temple  of  right. 


MEMORIES. 


They  come,  as  the  breeze  comes  over  the  foam. 

Waking  the  waves  that  are  sinking  to  sleep — 

The  fairest  of  memories  from  far-away  home. 

The  dim  dreams  of  faces  beyond  the  dark  deep. 

They  come  as  the  stars  come  out  in  the  sky. 

That  shimmer  wherever  the  shadows  may  sweep. 

And  their  steps  are  as  soft  as  the  sound  of  a sigh. 

And  I welcome  them  all  while  I wearily  weep. 

They  come  as  a song  comes  out  of  the  past 
A loved  mother  murmured  in  days  that  are  dead. 
Whose  tones  spirit-thrilling  live  on  to  the  last, 

When  the  gloom  of  the  heart  wraps  its  gray  o^er  the 
head. 

They  come  like  the  ghosts  from  the  grass  shrouded 
graves. 

And  they  follow  our  footsteps  on  life’s  winding  way; 
And  they  murmur  around  us  as  murmur  the  waves 
That  sigh  on  the  shore  at  the  dying  of  day. 


92 


Memories. 


They  come,  sad  as  tears  to  the  eyes  that  are  bright; 

They  come,  sweet  as  smiles  to  the  lips  that  are  pale; 
They  come,  dim  as  dreams  in  the  depths  of  the  night; 
They  come,  fair  as  flowers  to  the  summerless  vale. 

There  is  not  a heart  that  is  not  haunted  so, 

Though  far  we  may  stray  from  the  scenes  of  the  past, 
Its  memories  will  follow  wherever  we  go. 

And  the  days  that  were  first  sway  the  days  that  are 

last. 


THE  PRAYER  OF  THE  SOUTH. 


My  brow  is  bent  beneath  a heavy  rod! 

My  face  is  wan  and  white  with  many  woes! 
But  I will  lift  my  poor  chained  hands  to  God, 
And  for  my  children  pray,  and  for  my  foes. 
Beside  the  graves  where  thousands  lowly  lie 
I kneel,  and  weeping  for  each  slaughtered  son, 
I turn  my  gaze  to  my  own  sunny  sky, 

And  pray,  0 Father,  let  Thy  will  be  done! 


My  heart  is  filled  with  anguish,  deep  and  vast! 

My  hopes  are  buried  with  my  children’s  dust! 
My  joys  have  fled,  my  tears  are  flowing  fast! 

In  whom,  save  Thee,  our  Father,  shall  I trust? 
Ah!  I forgot  Thee,  Father,  long  and  oft. 

When  I was  happy,  rich,  and  proud,  and  free; 
But  conquered  now,  and  crushed,  I look  aloft. 
And  sorrow  leads  me.  Father,  back  to  Thee, 


94 


The  Prayer  of  the  South. 


Amid  the  wrecks  that  mark  the  foeman’s  path 
I kneel,  and  wailing  o^er  my  glories  gone, 

I still  each  thought  of  hate,  each  throb  of  wrath, 
And  whisper,  Father,  let  Thy  will  be  done  I 

Pity  me,  Father  of  the  desolate! 

Alas!  my  burdens  are  so  hard  to  bear; 

Look  down  in  mercy  on  my  wretched  fate. 

And  keep  me,  guard  me,  with  Thy  loving  care. 

Pity  me.  Father,  for  His  holy  sake. 

Whose  broken  heart  bled  at  the  feet  of  grief. 

That  hearts  of  earth,  whenever  they  shall  break. 
Might  go  to  His  and  find  a sure  relief. 

Ah,  me,  how  dark!  Is  this  a brief  eclipse? 

Or  is  it  night  with  no  to-morrow’s  sun? 

O Father!  Father!  with  my  pale,  sad  lips. 

And  sadder  heart,  I pray  Thy  will  be  done. 

My  homes  are  joyless,  and  a million  mourn 
Where  many  met  in  joys  forever  fiown; 

Whose  hearts  were  light,  are  burdened  now  ano  tom 
Where  many  smiled,  but  one  is  left  to  moan. 

And  ah!  the  widow’s  wails,  the  orphan’s  cries. 

Are  morning  hymn  and  vesper  chant  to  me; 

And  groans  of  men  and  sounds  of  women’s  sighs 
Commingle,  Father,  with  my  prayer  to  Thee, 


The  Prayer  of  the  South. 


95 


Beneath  my  feet  ten  thousand  children  dead — 

Oh!  how  I loved  each  known  and  nameless  one! 

Above  their  dust  I bow  my  crownless  head 
And  murmur:  Father,  still  Thy  will  be  done. 

Ah!  Father,  Thou  didst  deck  my  own  loved  land 
With  all  bright  charms,  and  beautiful  and  fair; 

But  foeman  came,  and  with  a ruthless  hand. 
Spread  ruin,  wreck,  and  desolation  there. 

Girdled  with  gloom,  of  all  my  brightness  shorn. 
And  garmented  with  grief,  I kiss  Thy  rod. 

And  turn  my  face,  with  tears  all  wet  and  worn, 

To  catch  one  smile  of  pity  from  my  God. 

Around  me  blight,  where  all  before  was  bloom. 
And  so  much  lost,  alas ! and  nothing  won 

Save  this — that  I can  lean  on  wreck  and  tomb 
And  weep,  and  weeping,  pray  Thy  will  be  done. 

And  oh!  ’tis  hard  to  say,  but  said,  Tis  sweet; 

The  words  are  bitter,  but  they  hold  a balm — 

A balm  that  heals  the  wounds  of  my  defeat. 

And  lulls  my  sorrows  into  holy  calm. 

It  is  the  prayer  of  prayers,  and  how  it  brings. 

When  heard  in  heaven,  peace  and  hope  to  me! 

When  Jesus  prayed  it  did  not  angels’  wings 
Gleam  ’mid  the  darkness  of  Gethsemane? 


96 


The  Prayer  of  the  South. 


My  children,  Father,  Thy  forgiveness  need; 

Alas!  their  hearts  have  only  place  for  tears! 

Forgive  them.  Father,  evhy  wrongful  deed. 

And  every  sin  of  those  four  bloody  years; 

And  give  them  strength  to  bear  their  boundless  loss, 
And  from  their  hearts  take  every  thought  of  hate; 
And  while  they  climb  their  Calvary  with  their  Cross, 
Oh!  help  them.  Father,  to  endure  its  weight. 

And  for  my  dead,  my  Father,  may  I pray? 

Ah!  sighs  may  soothe,  but  prayer  shall  soothe  me  more! 
{ keep  eternal  watch  above  their  clay; 

Oh!  rest  their  souls,  my  Father,  I implore; 

Forgive  my  foes — they  know  not  what  they  do— » 
Forgive  them  all  the  tears  they  made  me  shed; 
Forgive  them,  though  my  noblest  sons  they  slew, 

And  bless  them,  though  they  curse  my  poor,  dear  dead. 

Oh!  may  my  woes  be  each  a carrier  dove. 

With  swift,  white  wings,  that,  bathing  in  my  tears. 
Will  bear  Thee,  Father,  all  my  prayers  of  love. 

And  bring  me  peace  in  all  my  doubts  and  fears. 
Father,  I kneel,  ’mid  ruin,  wreck,  and  grave — 

A desert  waste,  where  all  was  erst  so  fair — 

Ar  d for  my  children  and  my  foes  I crave 
Pity  and  pardon.  Father,  hear  my  prayer! 


FEAST  OF  THE  ASSUMPTION. 


**A  NIGHT  prayer/^ 


Dark  I Dark!  Dark! 

The  sun  is  set;  the  day  is  dead. 

Thy  Feast  has  fled; 

My  eyes  are  wet  with  tears  unshed; 

I bow  my  head; 

Where  the  star-fringed  shadows  softly  sway 
I bend  my  knee. 

And,  like  a homesick  child,  I pray, 

Mary,  to  thee. 

Dark!  Dark!  Dark! 

And,  all  the  day — since  white-robed  priest 
In  farthest  East, 

In  dawn’s  first  ray— began  the  Feast, 

I — I the  least — 

Thy  least,  and  last,  and  lowest  child, 

I called  on  thee! 

Virgin!  didst  hear?  my  words  were  wild; 
Didst  think  of  me? 
m 


98 


Feast  of  the  Assumption. 


Dark!  Dark!  Dark! 

Alas ! and  no ! The  angels  bright. 

With  wings  as  white 
As  a dream  of  snow  in  love  and  light. 
Flashed  on  thy  sight; 

They  shone  like  stars  around  thee  I Queen. 
I knelt  afar — 

A shadow  only  dims  the  scene 
Where  shines  a star! 


Dark!  Dark!  Dark! 

And  all  day  long,  beyond  the  sky^ 

Sweet,  pure,  and  high, 

The  angels’  song  swept  sounding  by 
Triumphantly; 

And  when  such  music  filled  thy  ear, 

Eose  round  thy  throne. 

How  could  I hope  that  thou  wouldst  hear 
My  far,  faint  moan? 

Dark!  Dark!  Dark! 

And  all  day  long,  where  altars  stand. 

Or  poor  or  grand, 

A countless  throng  from  every  land. 

With  lifted  hand. 


Feast  of  the  Assumption. 


99 


Winged  hymns  to  thee  from  sorrow’s  vale 
In  glad  acclaim, 

How  couldst  thou  hear  my  lone  lips  wail 
Thy  sweet,  pure  name? 

Dark!  Dark!  Dark! 

Alas!  and  no!  Thou  didst  not  hear 
Nor  bend  thy  ear. 

To  prayer  of  woe  as  mine  so  drear; 

For  hearts  more  dear 
Hid  me  from  hearing  and  from  sight 
This  bright  Feast-day; 

Wilt  hear  me,  Mother,  if  in  its  night 
I kneel  and  pray? 


Dark!  Dark!  DarkI 
The  sun  is  set,  the  day  is  dead; 

Thy  Feast  hath  fled; 

My  eyes  are  wet  with  the  tears  I shed 
I bow  my  head ; 

Angels  and  altars  hailed  thee  Queen 
All  day;  ah!  be 

To-night  what  thou  hast  ever  been— 
A mother  to  me  I 


100 


Feast  of  the  Assumption. 


Dark!  Dark  I Dark! 

Thy  queenly  crown  in  angels’  sight 
Is  fair  and  bright; 

Ah!  lay  it  down;  for,  oh!  to-night 
Its  jeweled  light 

Shines  not  as  the  tender  love-light  shines, 

0 Mary!  mild. 

In  the  mother’s  eyes,  whose  pure  heart  pines 
For  poor,  lost  child! 


Dark!  Dark!  Dark! 

Sceptre  in  hand,  thou  dost  hold  sway 
Fore’er  and  aye 

In  angel-land;  but,  fair  Queen!  pray 
Lay  it  away. 

Let  thy  sceptre  wave  in  the  realms  above 
Where  angels  are; 

But,  Mother!  fold  in  thine  arms  of  love 
Thy  child  afar! 

Dark!  Dark!  Dark! 

Mary  I I call!  Wilt  hear  the  prayer 
My  poor  lips  dare? 

STea!  be  to  all  a Queen  most  fair. 

Crown,  sceptre,  bear! 


Feast  of  the  AssmiptioUc 


101 


But  look  on  me  witii  a mother’s  eyes 
From  heaven’s  bliss; 

And  waft  to  me  from  the  starry  skies 
A mother’s  kiss  I 


Dark!  Dark!  Dark! 

The  sun  is  set,  the  day  is  dead; 

Her  Feast  has  fled! 

Can  she  forget  the  sweet  blood  shed. 

The  last  words  said 

That  evening — Woman!  behold  thy  Son!’^ 
Oh!  priceless  right. 

Of  all  His  children!  The  last,  least  one. 

Is  heard  to-night. 


SUBSUM  CORDA. 


Weaey  hearts!  weary  hearts!  by  the  cares  of  lift 
oppressed, 

Ye  are  wandering  in  the  shadows — ^ye  are  sighing  for 
a rest: 

There  is  darkness  in  the  heavens,  and  the  earth  is  bleak 
below, 

And  the  joys  we  taste  to-day  may  to-morrow  turn 
to  woe. 

Weary  hearts!  God  is  Best. 

Lonely  hearts!  lonely  hearts!  this  is  but  a land  of 
grief; 

Ye  are  pining  for  repose — ^ye  are  longing  for  relief: 

What  the  world  hath  never  given,  kneel  and  ask  of  God 
above. 

And  your  grief  shall  turn  to  gladness,  if  you  lean  upon 
His  love. 

Lonely  hearts!  God  is  Love. 

Restless  hearts!  restless  hearts!  ye  are  toiling  night 
and  day. 

And  the  flowers  of  life,  all  withered,  leave  but  thorns 
along  your  way: 


(102) 


Sursum  Corda. 


103 


Ye  are  waiting,  ye  are  waiting,  till  your  toilings  all 
shall  cease. 

And  your  ev’ry  restless  beating  is  a sad,  sad  prayer  for 
peace. 

Eestless  hearts!  God  is  Peace. 


Breaking  hearts!  broken  hearts!  ye  are  desolate  and 
lone, 

And  low  voices  from  the  past  o’er  your  present  ruins 
moan! 

In  the  sweetest  of  your  pleasures  there  was  bitterest 
alloy. 

And  a starless  night  hath  followed  on  the  sunset  of 
your  joy. 

Broken  hearts!  God  is  Joy. 


Homeless  hearts!  homeless  hearts!  through  the  dreary, 
dreary  years, 

Ye  are  lonely,  lonely  wand’rers,  and  your  way  is  wet 
with  tears; 

In  bright  or  blighted  places,  wheresoever  ye  may  roam, 

Ye  look  away  from  earth-land,  and  ye  murmur,  Where 
is  home?” 

Homeless  hearts!  God  is  Home, 


A CHILLIS  WISH. 


BEFORE  AN  ALTAR. 


I WISH  I were  the  little  key 
That  locks  Love’s  Captive  in, 
And  lets  Him  out  to  go  and  free 
A sinful  heart  from  sin. 


I wish  I were  the  little  hell 
That  tinkles  for  the  Host, 

When  God  comes  down  each  day  to  dwell 
With  hearts  He  loves  the  most. 


I wish  I were  the  chalice  fair. 

That  holds  the  Blood  of  Love, 
When  every  flash  lights  holy  prayer 
Upon  its  way  above. 

(104) 


A Child^s  Wish. 


105 


I wish  I were  the  little  flower 
So  near  the  Host’s  sweet  face. 

Or  like  the  light  that  half  an  hour 
Burns  on  the  shrine  of  grace. 


I wish  I were  the  altar  where. 

As  on  His  mother’s  breast, 
Christ  nestles,  like  a child,  fore’er 
In  Eucharistic  rest. 

But,  oh!  my  God,  I wish  the  most 
That  my  poor  heart  may  be 
A home  all  holy  for  each  Host 
That  comes  in  love  to  me. 


*^PRE8ENTIMENT.^ 


“my  sistee.” 


Cometh  a voice  from  a far-landl 
Beautiful,  sad,  and  low, 

Shineth  a light  from  the  star-land  I 
Down  on  the  night  of  my  woe; 

And  a white  hand,  with  a garland, 

Biddeth  my  spirit  to  go. 

Away  and  afar  from  the  night-land. 

Where  sorrow  overshadows  my  way, 

To  the  splendors  and  skies  of  the  light-land. 
Where  reigneth  eternity’s  day. 

To  the  cloudless  and  shadowless  bright-land^ 
Whose  sun  never  passeth  away. 

And  I knew  the  voice;  not  a sweeter 
On  earth  or  in  Heaven  can  be; 

And  never  did  shadow  pass  fleeter 
Than  it,  and  its  strange  melody; 

And  I know  I must  hasten  to  meet  her, 
^Yeal  Sister  I thou  callest  to  me!” 


^^PresentimenV^ 


107 


And  I saw  the  light;  ’twas  not  seeming, 

It  flashed  from  the  crown  that  she  wore, 

And  the  brow,  that  with  jewels  was  gleaming. 
My  lips  had  kissed  often  of  yore! 

And  the  eyes,  that  with  rapture  were  beaming, 
Had  smiled  on  me  sweetly  before. 

And  I saw  the  hand  with  the  garland, 

Ethel’s  hand — holy  and  fair; 

Who  went  long  ago  to  the  far-land 
To  weave  me  the  wreath  I shall  wear; 

And  to-night  I look  up  to  the  star-land. 

And  pray  that  1 soon  may  be  there. 


LAST  OF  MAY. 


TO  THE  CHILDREN  OF  MARY  OP  THE  CATHEDRAL  OF  MOBILE. 


the  mystical  dim  ot  the  templa 
In  the  dream-hannted  dim  of  the  day, 

The  sunlight  spoke  soft  to  the  shadows, 

And  said:  ^^With  my  gold  and  your  gray. 

Let  us  meet  at  the  shrine  of  the  Virgin, 

And  ere  her  fair  feast  pass  away. 

Let  us  weave  there  a mantle  of  glory, 

To  deck  the  last  evening  of  May/^ 

The  tapers  were  lit  on  the  altar. 

With  garlands  of  lilies  between; 

And  the  steps  leading  up  to  the  statue 
Flashed  bright  with  the  roses’  red  sheen; 

The  sungleams  came  down  from  the  heavens 
Like  angels,  to  hallow  the  scene. 

And  they  seemed  to  kneel  down  with  the  shadows 
That  crept  to  the  shrine  of  the  Queen. 


Last  of  May. 


109 


The  singers,  their  hearts  in  their  voices. 

Had  chanted  the  anthems  of  old, 

And  the  last  trembling  wave  of  the  Vespers 
On  the  far  shores  of  silence  had  rolled. 

And  there — at  the  Queen- Virgin’s  altar — 

The  sun  wove  the  mantle  of  gold. 

While  the  hands  of  the  twilight  were  weaving 
A fringe  for  the  flash  of  each  fold. 

And  wavelessly,  in  the  deep  silence. 

Three  banners  hung  peaceful  and  low — 
They  bore  the  bright  blue  of  the  heavens. 

They  wore  the  pure  white  of  the  snow — 
And  beneath  them  fair  children  were  kneeling, 
Whose  faces,  with  graces  aglow. 

Seemed  sinless,  in  land  that  is  sinful, 

And  woeless,  in  life  full  of  woe. 

Their  heads  wore  the  veil  of  the  lily. 

Their  brows  wore  the  wreath  of  the  rose. 
And  their  hearts,  like  their  flutterless  banners. 
Were  stilled  in  a holy  repose. 

Their  shadowless  eyes  were  uplifted. 

Whose  glad  gaze  would  never  disclose 
That  from  eyes  that  are  most  like  the  heavens 
The  dark  rain  of  tears  soonest  flows. 


110 


Last  of  May. 


• The  banners  were  borne  to  the  railing, 

Beneath  them,  a group  from  each  band; 

And  they  bent  their  bright  folds  for  the  blessing 
That  fell  from  the  priest’s  lifted  hand. 

And  he  signed  the  three  fair,  silken  standards. 
With  a sign  never  foe  could  withstand. 

What  stirred  them?  The  breeze  of  the  evening? 
Or  a breath  from  the  far  angel-land  ? 


Then  came,  two  by  two,  to  the  altar, 

The  young,  and  the  pure,  and  the  fair. 
Their  faces  the  mirror  of  Heaven, 

Their  hands  folded  meekly  in  prayer. 
They  came  for  a simple  blue  ribbon. 

For  love  of  Christ’s  Mother  to  wear; 
And  I believe,  with  the  Children  of  Mary, 
The  Angels  of  Mary  were  there. 


Ah,  faith!  simple  faith  of  the  childreni 
You  still  shame  the  faith  of  the  oldl 
Ah,  love!  simple  love  of  the  little. 

You  still  warm  the  love  of  the  cold! 

And  the  beautiful  God  who  is  wandering 
Far  out  in  the  world’s  dreary  wold, 

Finds  a home  in  the  hearts  of  the  children. 
And  a rest  with  the  lambs  of  the  fold* 


Jbafd  of  May. 


Ill 


Swept  a voice:  was  it  wafted  from  Heaven? 

Heard  you  ever  the  sea  when  it  sings, 

Where  it  sleeps  on  the  shore  in  the  night  time? 

Heard  you  ever  the  hymns  the  breeze  brings 
Prom  the  hearts  of  a thousand  bright  summers/ 
Heard  you  ever  the  bird,  when  she  springs 
To  the  clouds,  till  she  seems  to  be  only 
A song  of  a shadow  on  wings? 

Came  a voice:  and  an  ^^Ave  Maria 
Rose  out  of  a heart  rapture-thrilled; 

And  in  the  embrace  of  its  musio 
The  souls  of  a thousand  lay  stilled. 

A voice  with  the  tones  of  an  angel, 

Never  flower  such  a sweetness  distilled, 

It  faded  away — but  the  temple 
With  its  perfume  of  worship  was  filled. 


Then  back  to  the  Queen -Virgin’s  altar 
The  white  veils  swept  on,  two  by  two; 
And  the  holiest  halo  of  heaven 

Flashed  out  from  the  ribbons  of  blue; 
And  they  laid  down  the  wreaths  of  the  roses 
Whose  hearts  were  as  pure  as  their  hue; 
Ah  I they  to  the  Christ  are  the  truest. 

Whose  loves  to  the  Mother  are  truel 


112 


Last  of  May. 


And  thus,  in  the  dim  of  the  temple, 

In  the  dream-haunted  dim  of  the  day. 

The  Angels  and  Children  of  Mary 

Met  ere  their  Queen^s  Feast  passed  away. 

Where  the  sungleams  knelt  down  with  the  SA^d/>ws, 
And  wove  with  their  gold  and  their  gra) 

A mantle  of  grace  and  of  glory 

For  the  last,  lovely  evening  of  May- 


S.  M.  A. 


Gone!  and  there’s  not  a gleam  of  you. 

Faces  that  float  into  far  away; 

Gone!  and  we  can  only  dream  of  you, 

Each  as  you  fade  like  a star  away; 

Fade  as  a star  in  the  sky  from  us, 

Vainly  we  look  for  your  light  again; 

Hear  ye  the  sound  of  a sigh  from  us? 

^^Come!”  and  our  hearts  will  be  bright  again. 

Come!  and  gaze  on  our  face  once  more, 

Bring  us  the  smiles  of  the  olden  days; 

Come!  and  shine  in  your  place  once  more. 

And  change  the  dark  into  golden  days. 

Gone!  gone!  gone!  Joy  is  fled  for  us. 

Gone  into  the  night  of  the  nevermore, 

And  darkness  rests  where  you  shed  for  us 
A light  we  will  miss  forevermore. 

Faces!  ye  come  in  the  night  to  us; 

Shadows!  ye  float  in  the  sky  of  sleep; 
Shadows!  ye  bring  nothing  bright  to  us; 

Faces!  ye  are  but  the  sigh  of  sleep. 

Gone!  and  there’s  not  a gleam  of  you. 

Faces  that  float  into  the  far  away; 

Gone!  and  we  only  can  dream  of  you 
Till  we  sink  like  you  and  the  stars  away. 
ai3) 


FEAST  OF  THE  SACRED  HEART. 


Two  lights  on  a lowly  altar; 

Two  snowy  cloths  for  a Feast; 

Two  vases  of  dying  roses. 

The  morning  comes  from  the  east. 

With  a gleam  for  the  folds  of  the  vestments 
And  a grace  for  the  face  of  the  priest. 

The  sound  of  a low,  sweet  whisper 
Floats  over  a little  bread. 

And  trembles  around  a chalice. 

And  the  priest  bows  down  his  headl 
O’er  a sign  of  white  on  the  altar — 

In  the  cup — o’er  a sign  of  red. 

As  red  as  the  red  of  roses. 

As  white  as  the  white  of  snows! 

But  the  red  is  a red  of  a surface 
Beneath  which  a God^s  blood  flows; 

And  the  white  is  the  white  of  a sunlight 
Within  which  a God’s  flesh  glows. 

(114) 


Jf'east  of  the  Sacred  Heart. 


115 


Ah!  words  of  the  olden  Thursday! 

Ye  come  from  the  far-away! 

Ye  bring  us  the  Friday’s  victim 
In  His  own  love’s  olden  way. 

In  the  hand  of  the  priest  at  the  altar 
His  Heart  finds  a home  each  day. 

The  sight  of  a Host  uplifted! 

The  silver-sound  of  a bell! 

The  gleam  of  a golden  chalice. 

Be  glad,  sad  heart!  ’tis  well; 

He  made,  and  He  keeps  love’s  promise. 
With  thee,  all  days  to  dwell. 

From  his  hand  to  his  lips  that  tremble. 
From  his  lips  to  his  heart  a thrill, 
Goes  the  little  Host  on  its  love-path. 
Still  doing  the  Father’s  will; 

And  over  the  rim  of  the  chalice 
The  blood  fiows  forth  to  fill 

The  heart  of  the  man  anointed 
With  the  waves  of  a wondrous  grace; 
A silence  falls  on  the  altar — 

An  awe  on  each  bended  face — 

For  the  Heart  that  bled  on  Calvary 
Still  beats  in  the  holy  place. 


116 


Feast  of  the  Sacred  Heart. 


The  priest  comes  down  to  the  railing 
Where  brows  are  bowed  in  prayer; 

In  the  tender  clasp  of  his  fingers 
A Host  lies  pure  and  fair, 

And  the  hearts  of  Christ  and  the  Christian 
Meet  there — and  only  there! 

Oh ! love  that  is  deep  and  deathless  I 
Oh!  faith  that  is  strong  and  grand! 

Oh ! hope  that  will  shine  forever, 

O’er  the  wastes  of  a weary  land! 

Christ’s  Heart  finds  an  earthly  heaven 
In  the  palm  of  the  priest’s  pure  hand. 


The  Priest  comes  down  to  the  railing 
Where  brows  are  bowed  in  prayer  j 
In  the  tender  clasp  of  his  fingers 
A Host  lies  pure  and  fair. 


m MEMORY  OF  VERY  REV.  J.  B.  ETIENNE, 


SUPERIOR  GENERAL  OP  THE  CONGREGATION  OF  THE  MISSION  AND 
OF  THE  SISTERS  OF  CHARITY. 

A SHADOW  slept  folded  in  vestments. 

The  dream  of  a smile  on  its  face. 

Dim,  soft  as  the  gleam  after  sunset 
That  hangs  like  a halo  of  grace 
Where  the  daylight  hath  died  in  the  valley. 

And  the  twilight  hath  taken  its  place — 

A shadow!  hut  still  on  the  mortal 
There  rested  the  tremulous  trace 
Of  the  joy  of  a spirit  immortal, 

Passed  up  to  its  God  in  His  grace. 

A shadow!  hast  seen  in  the  summer 
A cloud  wear  the  smile  of  the  sun? 

On  the  shadow  of  death  there  is  flashing 
The  glory  of  noble  deeds  done; 

On  the  face  of  the  dead  there  is  glowing 
The  light  of  a holy  race  run; 

And  the  smile  of  the  face  is  reflecting 
The  gleam  of  the  crown  he  has  won. 

Still,  shadow!  sleep  on  in  the  vestments 
Unstained  by  the  priest  who  has  gone. 


118 


In  Memory  of  Very  Rev.  J.  B.  Etienne. 

And  thiK)’  all  the  nations  the  children 
Of  Vincent  de  Paul  wail  his  loss: 

But  the  glory  that  crowns  him  in  neayen 
Illumines  the  gloom  of  their  cross. 

They  send  to  the  shadow  the  tribute 
Of  tears,  from  the  fountains  of  love, 

And  they  send  from  their  altars  sweet  prayers 
To  the  throne  of  their  Father  above. 

Yea!  sorrow  weeps  over  the  shMow, 

But  faith  looks  aloft  to  the  skies; 

And  hope,  like  a rainbow,  is  flashing 
O’er  the  tears  that  rain  down  from  their  eyes. 

They  murmur  on  earth  ^^De  profundis,” 

The  low  chant  is  mingled  with  sighs; 

*^Laudate”  rings  out  through  the  heavens — 

The  dead  priest  hath  won  his  faith’s  prize. 

His  children  in  sorrow  will  honor 
His  grave;  every  tear  is  a gem. 

And  their  prayers  round  his  brow  in  the  heavens 
Will  brighten  his  fair  diadem. 

I kneel  at  his  grave  and  remember. 

In  love.  I am  still  one  of  them. 


TEARS. 


The  tears  that  trickled  down  our  eyes. 

They  do  not  touch  the  earth  to-day; 

But  soar  like  angels  to  the  skies, 

And,  like  the  angels,  may  not  die; 

For  ahl  our  immortality 

Plows  thro’  each  tear — sounds  in  each  sigh* 


What  waves  of  tears  surge  o’er  the  deep 
Of  sorrow  in  our  restless  souls! 

And  they  are  strong,  not  weak,  who  weep 
Those  drops  from  out  the  sea  that  rolls 
Within  their  hearts  forevermore; 
Without  a depth — without  a shore. 

But  ah!  the  tears  that  are  not  wept. 

The  tears  that  never  outward  fall; 

The  tears  that  grief  for  years  has  kept 
Within  us — ^they  are  best  of  all: 

The  tears  our  eyes  shall  never  know, 
Are  dearer  than  the  tears  that  flow. 
(11^) 


120 


Tears. 


Each  night  upon  earth’s  flowers  below. 

The  dew  comes  down  from  darkest  skies. 
And  every  night  our  tears  of  woe 
Go  up  like  dews  to  Paradise, 

To  keep  in  bloom,  and  make  more  fair. 
The  flowers  of  crowns  we  yet  shall  wear 

For  ah!  the  surest  way  to  God 
Is  up  the  lonely  streams  of  tears, 

That  flow  when  bending  ’neath  His  rod. 

And  All  the  tide  of  earthly  years. 

On  laughter’s  billows  hearts  are  tossed 
On  waves  of  tears  no  heart  is  lost. 


Flow  on,  ye  tears!  and  bear  me  home; 

Flow  not!  ye  tears  of  deeper  woe; 
Flow  on,  ye  tears!  that  are  but  foam 
Of  deeper  waves  that  will  not  flow. 

A little  while — I reach  the  shore 
Where  tears  flow  not  forevermore  1 


^IKES. 


TWO  LOVES. 

Two  loyes  came  up  a long,  wide  aisle, 
i nd  knelt  at  a low,  white  gate; 

One — tender  and  true,  with  the  shyest  smile, 

One — strong,  true,  and  elate. 

Two  lips  spoke  in  a firm,  true  way. 

And  two  lips  answered  soft  and  low. 

In  one  true  hand  such  a little  hand  lay 
Fluttering,  frail  as  a flake  of  snow. 

One  stately  head  bent  humbly  there. 

Stilled  were  the  th robbings  of  human  love; 

One  head  drooped  down  like  a lily  fair. 

Two  prayers  went,  wing  to  wing,  above. 

God  blest  them  both  in  the  holy  place, 

A long,  brief  moment  the  rite  was  done ; 

On  the  human  love  fell  the  heavenly  grace. 
Making  two  hearts  forever  one. 

Between  two  lengthening  rows  of  smiles. 

One  sweetly  shy,  one  proud,  elate, 

Two  loves  passed  down  the  long,  wide  aisles. 

Will  they  ever  forget  the  low,  white  gate? 


(121) 


THE  LAND  WE  LOVE. 


Land  of  the  gentle  and  brave  I 
Our  love  is  as  wide  as  thy  woe; 

It  deepens  beside  every  grave 
Where  the  heart  of  a hero  lies  low# 

Land  of  the  sunniest  skies! 

Our  love  glows  the  more  for  thy  gloom; 
«mr  hearts,  by  the  saddest  of  ties. 

Cling  closest  to  thee  in  thy  doom. 

hand  where  the  desolate  weep 
In  a sorrow  no  voice  may  console! 

Our  tears  are  but  streams,  making  deep 
The  ocean  of  love  in  our  soul. 

Land  where  the  victor’s  flag  waves. 

Where  only  the  dead  are  the  free! 

Each  link  of  the  chain  that  enslaves, 

But  binds  us  to  them  and  to  thee. 

Land  where  the  Sign  of  the  Cross 
Its  shadow  hath  everywhere  shed! 

We  measure  our  love  by  thy  loss, 

Thy  loss  by  the  graves  of  our  dead! 

(1221 


m MEMORIAM. 


Go!  Heart  of  mine!  the  way  is  long— 

The  night  is  dark — the  place  is  far; 

Go!  kneel  and  pray,  or  chant  a song, 

Beside  two  graves  where  Mary’s  star 

Shines  o’er  two  children’s  hearts  at  rest. 

With  Mary’s  medals  on  their  breast. 

Go!  Heart!  those  children  loved  you  so. 

Their  little  lips  prayed  oft  for  you! 

But  ah!  those  necks  are  lying  low 
Bound  which  you  twined  the  badge  of  bluesi 

Go  to  their  graves,  this  Virgin’s  feast. 

With  poet’s  song  and  prayer  of  priest. 

Go!  like  a pilgrim  to  a shrine. 

For  that  is  holy  ground  where  sleep 

Children  of  Mary  and  of  thine. 

Go!  kneel,  and  pray  and  sing  and  weep; 

Last  Summer  how  their  faces  smiled 
When  each  was  blessed  as  Mary’s  child. 

« 4:  * 

My  heart  hath  gone!  I cannot  sing! 

Beside  those  children’s  grave,  song  dies; 

Hush!  Poet! — Priest!  Prayer  hath  a wing 
To  pass  the  stars  and  reach  the  skies; 

Sweet  children!  from  the  land  of  light 
liook  down  and  bless  my  heart  to-night 


REVEEIB. 


We  laugh  when  our  souls  are  the  saddest^ 

We  shroud  all  our  griefs  in  a smile; 

Our  voices  may  warble  their  gladdest, 

And  our  souls  mourn  in  anguish  the  whiles 


And  our  eyes  wear  a summer^s  bright  glory, 
When  winter  is  wailing  beneath; 

And  we  tell  not  the  world  the  sad  story 
Of  the  thorn  hidden  back  of  the  wreath. 


Ah!  fast  flow  the  moments  of  laughter. 
And  bright  as  the  brook  to  the  sea; 
But  ah ! the  dark  hours  that  come  after 
Of  moaning  for  you  and  for  me* 


Yea,  swift  as  th^  sunshine,  and  fleeting 
As  birds,  fly  the  moments  of  glee! 

And  we  smile,  and  mayhap  grief  is  sleeting 
Its  ice  upon  you  and  on  me. 


Reverie. 


125 


And  the  clouds  of  the  tempest  are  shifting 
O’er  the  heart,  tho’  the  face  may  he  bright; 
And  the  snows  of  woe’s  winter  are  drifting 
Our  souls;  and  each  day  hides  a night. 


For  ah!  when  our  souls  are  enjoying 
The  mirth  which  our  faces  reveal, 

There  is  something — a something — alloying 
The  sweetness  of  joy  that  we  feel. 

Life’s  loveliest  sky  hides  the  thunder 
Whose  holt  in  a moment  may  fall ; 

And  our  path  may  he  flowery,  hut  under 
The  flowers  there  are  thorns  for  us  all. 


Ah!  ’tis  hard  when  our  beautiful  dreamings 
That  flash  down  the  valley  of  night. 

Wave  their  wing  when  the  gloom  hides  their  gloamings 
And  leave  us,  like  eagles  in  flight; 


And  fly  far  away  unretuming. 

And  leave  us  in  terror  and  tears, 

While  vain  is  the  spirit’s  wild  yearning 
That  they  may  come  back  in  the  years. 


126 


Reverie. 


Come  back!  did  I say  it?  but  never 
Do  eagles  come  back  to  the  cage: 

They  have  gone — they  have  gone — and  forever\ 
Does  youth  come  back  ever  to  age? 


No!  a joy  that  has  left  us  in  sorrow 
Smiles  never  again  on  our  way; 

But  we  meet  in  the  farthest  to-morrow 
The  face  of  the  grief  of  to-day. 


The  brightness  whose  tremulous  glimmer 
Has  faded  we  cannot  recall; 

And  the  light  that  grows  dimmer  and  dimmer— 
When  gone — ^^tis  forever  and  all. 


Not  a ray  of  it  anywhere  lingers, 

Not  a gleam  of  it  gilds  the  vast  gloom; 
Youth’s  roses  perfume  not  the  fingers 
Of  age  groping  nigh  to  the  tomb. 


For  ^Hhe  memory  of  joy  is  a sadness 
The  dim  twilight  after  the  day; 

And  the  grave  where  we  bury  a gladness 
Sends  a grief,  like  a ghost,  on  our  way. 


Reverie. 


127 


No  day  shall  return  that  has  faded, 

The  dead  come  not  back  from  the  tomb; 
The  Yale  of  each  life  must  be  shaded. 

That  we  may  see  best  from  the  gloom 


The  height  of  the  homes  of  our  glory 
All  radiant  with  splendors  of  light; 
That  we  may  read  clearly  lifers  story— 
‘^The  dark  is  the  dawn  of  the  bright,^^ 


/ OFTEN  WONDER  WHY  ^TIS  80. 


Some  find  work  where  some  find  rest. 
And  so  the  weary  world  goes  on ; 

I sometimes  wonder  which  is  best; 

The  answer  comes  when  life  is  gone. 


Some  eyes  sleep  when  some  eyes  wake. 

And  so  the  dreary  night-honrs  go; 

Some  hearts  beat  where  some  hearts  break; 
I often  wonder  why  ^tis  so. 


Some  wills  faint  where  some  wills  fight, 
Some  love  the  tent,  and  some  the  field; 

I often  wonder  who  are  right — 

The  ones  who  strive,  or  those  who  yield  ? 


Some  hands  fold  where  other  hands 
Are  lifted  bravely  in  the  strife; 
And  so  thro’  ages  and  thro’  lands 
Move  on  the  two  extremes  of  life. 


I Often  Wonder  Why  ^Tis  So. 


129 


Some  feet  halt  where  some  feet  tread, 

In  tireless  march,  a thorny  way; 

Some  struggle  on  where  some  have  fled; 
Some  seek  when  others  shun  the  fray. 

Some  swords  rust  where  others  clash. 
Some  fall  back  where  some  move  on; 
Some  flags  furl  where  others  flash 
Until  the  battle  has  been  won. 


Some  sleep  on  while  others  keep 
The  vigils  of  the  true  and  brave: 
They  will  not  rest  till  roses  creep 
Around  their  name  above  a grave. 


A BLESSING. 


Be  you  near,  or  be  you  far  I 
Let  my  blessing,  like  a star. 

Shine  upon  you  everywhere! 

And  in  each  lone  evening  hour. 
When  the  twilight  folds  the  flower, 
I will  fold  thy  name  in  prayer. 

In  the  dark  and  in  the  day, 

To  my  heart  you  know  the  way. 
Sorrow’s  pale  hand  keeps  the  key; 
In  your  sorrow  or  your  sin 
You  may  always  enter  in; 

I will  keep  a place  for  thee. 

If  God’s  blessing  pass  away 
From  your  spirit;  if  you  stray 
From  His  presence,  do  not  wait. 
Come  to  my  heart,  for  I keep. 

For  the  hearts  that  wail  and  weep, 
Ever  opened  wide — a gate. 


1130] 


A Blessing. 


131 


In  your  joys  to  others  go, 

When  your  feet  walk  ways  of  woe 
Only  then  come  back  to  me; 

I will  give  you  tear  for  tear. 

And  our  tears  shall  more  endear 
Thee  to  me  and  me  to  thee. 

For  I make  my  heart  the  home 
Of  all  hearts  in  grief  that  come 
Seeking  refuge  and  a rest. 

Do  not  fear  me,  for  you  know. 

Be  your  footsteps  e’er  so  low, 

I know  yours,  of  all,  the  best. 

Once  you  came;  and  you  brought  sin; 
Did  not  my  hand  lead  you  in — 

Into  God’s  Heart,  thro’  my  own? 
Did  not  my  voice  speak  a word 
You,  for  years,  had  never  heard— 
Mystic  word  in  Mercy’s  tone  ? 

And  a grace  fell  on  your  brow. 

And  I heard  your  murmured  vow. 
When  I whispered:  ‘^Go  in  peace,” 
^‘Go  in  peace,  and  sin  no  more,” 

Did  you  not  touch  Mercy’s  shore. 

Did  not  sin’s  wild  tempest  cease? 


132 


A Blessing. 


Go!  then:  thou  art  good  and  pure. 
If  thou  e’er  shouldst  fall,  be  sure, 
Back  to  me  thy  footsteps  trace! 
In  my  heart  for  year  and  year, 

Be  thou  far  away  or  near, 

I shall  keep  for  thee  a place. 

Yes!  I bless  you — near  or  far — 
And  my  blessing,  like  a star, 

Shall  shine  on  you  everywhere; 
And  in  many  a holy  hour. 

As  the  sunshine  folds  the  flower, 

1 will  fold  thy  heart  in  prayer. 


JULY  9th,  1872. 


Between  two  pillared  clouds  of  gold 
The  beautiful  gates  of  evening  swung — 

And  far  and  wide  from  flashing  fold 

The  half-furled  banners  of  light,  that  hung, 
O’er  green  of  wood  and  gray  of  wold 
And  over  the  blue  where  the  river  rolled. 

The  fading  gleams  of  their  glory  flung. 

The  sky  wore  not  a frown  all  day 
To  mar  the  smile  of  the  morning-tide, 

The  soft-voiced  winds  sang  joyous  lay — 

You  never  would  think  they  had  ever  sighed 
The  stream  went  on  its  sunlit  way 
In  ripples  of  laughter;  happy  they 
As  the  hearts  that  met  at  Eiverside. 

No  cloudlet  in  the  sky  serene  1 

Not  a silver  speck  in  the  golden  huel 
But  where  the  woods  waved  low  and  green. 
And  seldom  would  let  the  sunlight  through, 
Sweet  shadows  fell,  and  in  their  screen 
The  faces  of  children  might  be  seen. 

And  the  flash  of  ribbons  of  blue. 


(133) 


134 


July  9th,  1872. 


It  was  a children’s  simple  feast, 

Yet  many  were  there  whose  faces  told 
How  far  they  are  from  childhood’s  East 
Who  have  reached  the  evening  of  the  old  I 
And  father — mother — sister — priest— 

They  seemed  all  day  like  the  very  least 
Of  the  little  children  of  the  fold. 

The  old  forgot  they  were  not  young, 

The  young  forgot  they  would  e’er  be  old, 

And  all  day  long  the  trees  among. 

Where’er  their  footsteps  stayed  or  strolled. 

Came  wittiest  word  from  tireless  tongue. 

And  the  merriest  peals  of  laughter  rung 
Where  the  woods  drooped  low  and  the  river  vd  led* 

No  cloud  upon  the  faces  there. 

Not  a sorrow  came  from  its  hiding  place 
To  cast  the  shadow  of  a care 

On  the  fair,  sweet  brows  in  that  fairest  place; 

For  in  the  sky  and  in  the  air. 

And  in  their  spirits,  and  everywhere, 

Joy  reigned  in  the  fullness  of  her  grace. 

The  day  was  long,  but  ah  I too  brief  I 
Swift  to  the  West  bright-winged  she  fled; 

Too  soon  on  ev’ry  look  and  leaf 


July  Qth,  1812. 


135 


The  last  rays  flushed  which  her  plumage  shed 
Prom  an  evening  cloud — was  it  a sign  of  grief? 
And  the  bright  day  passed — is  there  much  relief 
That  its  dream  dies  not  when  its  gleam  is  dead? 

Great  sky!  thou  art  a prophet  still! 

And  by  thy  shadows  and  by  thy  rays 
We  read  the  future  if  we  will, 

And  all  the  fates  of  our  future  ways; 
To-morrows  meet  us  in  vale  and  hill, 

And  under  the  trees,  and  by  the  rill, 

Thou  givest  the  sign  of  our  coming  days. 

That  evening  cloud  was  a sign,  I ween— 

For  the  sister  of  that  Summer  day 
Shall  come  next  year  to  the  self-same  scene; 

The  winds  will  sing  the  self-same  lay, 

The  self-same  woods  will  wave  as  green, 

And  Eiverside,  thy  skies  serene 
Shall  robe  thee  again  in  a golden  sheen; 

Yet  though  thy  shadows  may  weave  a screen 
Where  the  children’s  faces  may  be  seen. 

Thou  ne’er  shall  be  as  thou  hast  been. 

For  a face  they  loved  has  passed  away. 


WAKB  MB  A SOm. 


Out  of  the  silences  wake  me  a song. 

Beautiful,  sad,  and  soft,  and  low; 

Let  the  loveliest  music  sound  along. 

And  wing  each  note  with  a wail  of  woe. 

Dim  and  drear 
As  hope’s  last  tear, 

Out  of  the  silences  wake  me  a hymn. 

Whose  sounds  are  like  shadows  soft  and  dim. 

Out  of  the  stillness  in  your  heart — 

A thousand  songs  are  sleeping  there — 

Wake  me  a song,  thou  child  of  art! 

The  song  of  a hope  in  a last  despair. 

Dark  and  low, 

A chant  of  woe. 

Out  of  the  stillness,  tone  by  tone. 

Cold  as  a snowflake,  low  as  a moan. 

Out  of  the  darkness  flash  me  a song. 

Brightly  dark  and  darkly  bright; 

Ijet  it  sweep  as  a lone  star  sweeps  along 
The  mystical  shadows  of  the  night. 

Sing  it  sweet. 

Where  nothing  is  drear,  or  dark,  or  dim, 
And  earth-song  soars  into  heavenly  hymn. 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


DAVID  J.  RYAN,  C.  S.  A. 


Tholt  art  sleeping,  brother,  sleeping 
In  thy  lonely  battle  grave; 

Shadows  o’er  the  past  are  creeping. 
Death,  the  reaper,  still  is  reaping. 

Years  have  swept,  and  years  are  sweeping 
Many  a memory  from  my  keeping. 

But  Fm  waiting  still,  and  weeping 
For  my  beautiful  and  brave. 

When  the  battle  songs  were  chanted, 

And  war’s  stirring  tocsin  pealed. 

By  those  songs  thy  heart  wast  haunted. 
And  thy  spirit,  proud,  undaunted. 
Clamored  wildly — wildly  panted; 
“Mother!  let  my  wish  be  granted; 

I will  ne’er  be  mocked  and  taunted 
That  I fear  to  meet  our  vaunted 
Foemen  on  the  bloody  field. 
fm 


138 


In  Memoriam. 


^^They  are  thronging,  mother!  thronging. 

To  a thousand  fields  of  fame; 

Let  me  go — ’tis  wrong,  and  wronging 
God  and  thee  to  crush  this  longing; 

On  the  muster-roll  of  glory. 

In  my  country’s  future  story. 

On  the  field  of  battle  gory 

I must  consecrate  my  name. 

'^Mother!  gird  my  sword  around  me. 

Kiss  thy  soldier-boy  ^ good-bye/’^ 

In  her  arms  she  wildly  wound  thee. 

To  thy  birth -land’s  cause  she  bound  thee, 
With  fond  prayers  and  blessings  crowned  thee, 
And  she  sobbed:  ^^When  foes  surround  thee. 
If  you  fall.  I’ll  know  they  found  thee 
Where  the  bravest  love  to  die.” 

At  the  altar  of  their  nation, 

Stood  that  mother  and  her  son. 

He,  the  victim  of  oblation, 

Panting  for  his  immolation; 

She,  in  priestess’  holy  station. 

Weeping  words  of  consecration. 

While  God  smiled  his  approbation. 

Blessed  the  boy’s  self-abnegation. 

Cheered  the  mother’s  desolation. 

When  the  sacrifice  was  donet 


In  Memoriam. 


139 


Forth,  like  many  a noble  other. 

Went  he,  whispering  soft  and  low: 
^Good-bye — pray  for  me,  my  mother; 
Sister!  kiss  me — farewell,  brother;’^ 

And  he  strove  his  grief  to  smother. 

Forth,  with  footsteps  firm  and  fearless. 
And  his  parting  gaze  was  tearless 
Though  his  heart  was  lone  and  cheerless. 
Thus  from  all  he  loved  to  go. 

Lo!  yon  flag  of  freedom  flashing 
In  the  sunny  Southern  sky: 

On,  to  death  and  glory  dashing. 

On,  where  swords  are  clanging,  clashing. 
On,  where  balls  are  crushing,  crashing. 
On,  ’mid  perils  dread,  appalling. 

On,  they’re  falling,  falling,  falling. 

On,  they’re  growing  fewer,  fewer. 

On,  their  hearts  beat  all  the  truer. 

On,  on,  on,  no  fear,  no  falter. 

On,  though  round  the  battle-altar 
There  were  wounded  victims  moaning. 
There  were  dying  soldiers  groaning; 

On,  right  on,  death’s  danger  braving. 
Warring  where  their  flag  was  waving. 
While  Baptismal  blood  was  laving 
All  that  field  of  death  and  slaughter; 


140 


In  Memoriam. 


On,  still  on;  that  bloody  lava 

Made  them  braver  and  made  them  braver, 

On,  with  never  a halt  or  waver, 

On  in  battle — bleeding — bounding. 

While  the  glorious  shout  swept  sounding, 
‘^We  will  win  the  day  or  die!’’ 

And  they  won  it;  routed — ^riven — 

Eeeled  the  foemen’s  proud  array: 
They  had  struggled  hard,  and  striven. 
Blood  in  torrents  they  had  given, 

But  their  ranks,  dispersed  and  driven, 
Fled,  in  sullenness,  away. 

Many  a heart  was  lonely  lying 

That  would  never  throb  again; 

Some  were  dead,  and  some  were  dying; 
Those  were  silent,  these  were  sighing; 
Thus  to  die  alone,  unattended, 

Unbewept  and  unbefriended. 

On  that  bloody  battle-plain. 

When  the  twilight  sadly,  slowly 

Wrapped  its  mantle  o’er  them  all. 
Thousands,  thousands  lying  lowly. 
Hushed  in  silence  deep  and  holy. 

There  was  one,  his  blood  was  flowing 
And  his  last  of  life  was  going, 


In  Memoriam. 


141 


And  his  pulse  faint,  fainter  beating 
Told  his  hours  were  few  and  fleeting; 

And  his  brow  grew  white  and  whiter, 

While  his  eyes  grew  strangely  brighter; 
There  he  lay — like  infant  dreaming. 

With  his  sword  beside  him  gleaming. 

For  the  hand  in  life  that  grasped  it, 

True  in  death  still  fondly  clasped  it; 

There  his  comrades  found  him  lying 
’Mid  the  heaps  of  dead  and  dying. 

And  the  sternest  bent  down  weeping 
O’er  the  lonely  sleeper  sleeping: 

’Twas  the  midnight;  stars  shone  round  him. 
And  they  told  us  how  they  found  him 
Where  the  bravest  love  to  fall. 

Where  the  woods,  like  banners  bending. 
Drooped  in  starlight  and  in  gloom. 
There,  when  that  sad  night  was  ending. 

And  the  faint,  far  dawn  was  blending 
With  the  stars  now  fast  descending; 

There  they  mute  and  mournful  bore  him. 
With  the  stars  and  shadows  o’er  him. 

And  they  laid  him  down — so  tender — 

And  the  next  day’s  sun,  in  splendor. 

Flashed  above  my  brother’s  tomb. 


WHATf 


TO  ETHEL. 


At  the  golden  gates  of  the  visions 
I knelt  me  adown  one  day; 

But  sudden  my  prayer  was  a silence. 

For  I heard  from  the  ^^Far  away^^ 

The  murmur  of  many  voices 
And  a silvery  censer’s  sway. 

I bowed  in  awe,  and  I listened — 

The  deeps  of  my  soul  were  stirred. 
But  deepest  of  all  was  the  meaning 
Of  the  far-off  music  I heard. 

And  yet  it  was  stiller  than  silence. 

Its  notes  were  the  "Dream  of  a Word.' 

A word  that  is  whispered  in  heaven. 

But  cannot  be  heard  below. 

It  lives  on  the  lips  of  the  angels 
Where’er  their  pure  wings  glow. 

Yet  only  the  "Dream  of  its  Echo” 

Ever  reaches  this  valley  of  woe. 


Whatf 


143 


But  I know  the  word  and  its  meaning; 

I reached  to  its  height  that  day, 
When  prayer  sank  into  a silence 
And  my  heart  was  so  far  away; 

But  I may  not  murmur  the  music. 

Nor  the  word  may  my  lips  yet  say. 

But  some  day  far  in  the  future. 

And  up  from  the  dust  of  the  dead. 
And  out  of  my  lips  when  speechless. 
The  mystical  word  shall  be  said, 
*Twill  come  to  thee,  still  as  a spirit, 
When  the  soul  of  the  bard  has  fled. 


THE  MASTERS  VOICE. 


The  waves  were  weary,  and  they  went  to  sleep 
The  winds  were  hushed ; 

The  starlight  flushed 
The  furrowed  face  of  all  the  mighty  deep. 


The  billows  yester  eve  so  dark  and  wild. 
Wore  strangely  now 
A calm  upon  their  brow, 

Like  that  which  rests  upon  a cradled  child. 


The  sky  was  bright,  and  every  single  star. 
With  gleaming  face. 

Was  in  its  place. 

And  looked  upon  the  sea^— so  fair  and  far. 


And  all  was  still — still  as  a temple  dim. 
When  low  and  faint, 

As  murmurs  plaint, 

Dies  the  last  note  of  the  Vesper  hymn. 


a44^ 


The  Master^s  Voice. 


145 


A bark  slept  on  the  sea,  and  in  the  bark 
Slept  Mary’s  Son — 

The  only  One 

Whose  face  is  light!  where  all,  all  else,  is  dark. 


His  brow  was  heavenward  turned.  His  face  was  fail 
He  dreamed  of  me 
On  that  still  sea — 

The  stars  He  made  were  gleaming  through  His  hain 


And,  lol  a moan  moved  o’er  the  mighty  deep; 
The  sky  grew  dark: 

The  little  bark 

Felt  all  the  waves  awaking  from  their  sleep. 


The  winds  wailed  wild,  and  wilder  billows  beat; 
The  bark  was  tossed: 

Shall  all  be  lost? 

But  Mary’s  Son  slept  on,  serene  and  sweet 


The  tempest  raged  in  all  its  mighty  wrath. 

The  winds  howled  on. 

All  hope  seemed  gone. 

And  darker  waves  surged  round  the  bark’s  lone  path. 


146 


The  Mdster^s  Voice. 


The  sleeper  woke!  He  gazed  upon  the  deep; 

He  whispered:  Peace! 

Winds — wild  waves,  cease! 

Be  still!’'  The  tempest  fled — ^the  ocean  fell  asleep. 


And,  ah!  when  human  hearts  by  storms  are  tossed. 
When  life’s  lone  bark 
Drifts  through  the  dark. 

And  'mid  the  wildest  waves  where  all  seems  lost. 


He  now,  as  then,  with  words  of  power  and  peace. 
Murmurs:  ‘^Stormy  deep. 

Be  still — still — and  sleep!” 

And,  lol  a great  calm  comes — ^the  tempest’s  perils  cease; 


A ^THOTJGHT-FLOWERr 


Silently — shadowly — some  lives  go. 

And  the  sound  of  their  voices  is  all  unheard, 

Oi',  if  heard  at  all,  ’tis  as  faint  as  the  flow 

Of  beautiful  waves  which  no  storm  hath  stirred 
Deep  lives  these. 

As  the  pearl-strewn  seas. 

Softly  and  noiselessly  some  feet  tread 

Lone  ways  on  earth,  without  leaving  a markj 

They  move  ’mid  the  living,  they  pass  to  the  dead. 
As  still  as  the  gleam  of  a star  thro’  the  dark 
Sweet  lives  those 
In  their  strange  repose. 

Calmly  and  lowly  some  hearts  beat, 

And  none  may  know  that  they  beat  at  all; 

They  muffle  their  music  whenever  they  meet 
A few  in  a hut  or  a crowd  in  a halL 
Great  hearts  those— 

God  only  knows  I 


148 


A ^‘ThoughUF lower 


Soundlessly — sliadowly — such  move  on, 

Dim  as  the  dream  of  a child  asleep; 

And  no  one  knoweth  ^till  they  are  gone 

How  lofty  their  souls — their  hearts  how  deep; 
Bright  souls  these — 

God  only  sees. 

Lonely  and  hiddenly  in  the  world — 

Tho’  in  the  world  ’tis  their  lot  to  stay— 

The  tremulous  wings  of  their  hearts  are  furled 
Until  they  fly  from  the  world  away. 

And  find  their  rest 
On  ^^Our  Father’s’’  breast, 

Where  earth’s  unknown  shall  be  known  the  best. 
And  the  hidden  hearts  shall  be  brightest  blest. 


I 


A DEATH. 


Crushed  with  a burden  of  woe. 

Wrecked  in  the  tempest  of  sin: 

Death  came,  and  two  lips  murmured  low^ 
^^Ah!  once  I was  white  as  the  snow. 

In  the  happy  and  pure  long  ago; 

But  they  say  God  is  sweet — is  it  so? 

Will  He  let  a poor  wayward  one  in — 
‘Hn  where  the  innocent  are? 

Ah!  justice  stands  guard  at  the  gate; 
Does  it  mock  at  a poor  sinner’s  fate? 
Alas!  I have  fallen  so  far! 

Oh!  God!  Oh!  my  God!  ’tis  too  latel 
I have  fallen  as  falls  a lost  star; 


“The  sky  does  not  miss  the  gone  gleam. 

But  my  heart,  like  the  lost  star,  can  dream 
Of  the  sky  it  has  fall’n  from.  Nay! 

I have  wandered  too  far — far  away. 


160 


A Death. 


Oh!  would  that  my  mother  were  here; 

Is  God  like  a mother?  Has  He 
Any  love  for  a sinner  like  me?^' 

Her  face  wore  the  wildness  of  woe— 

Her  words,  the  wild  tones  of  despair; 

Ah  I how  can  a heart  sink  so  low  ? 

How  a face  that  was  once  bright  and  so  fair. 
Can  be  furrowed  and  darkened  with  care? 
Wild  rushed  the  hot  tears  from  her  eyes, 

From  her  lips  rushed  the  wildest  of  sighs. 

Her  poor  heart  was  broken;  but  then 
Her  God  was  far  gentler  than  men. 


A voice  whispered  low  at  her  side. 

Child  I God  is  more  gentle  than  men. 

He  watches  by  passion^s  dark  tide. 

He  sees  a wreck  drifting — and  then 
He  beckons  with  hand  and  with  voice. 

And  He  sees  the  poor  wreck  floating  in 
To  the  haven  on  Mercy’s  bright  shore. 

And  He  whispers  the  whisper  of  yore: 

‘The  angels  of  heaven  rejoice 

O’er  the  sinner  repenting  of  sin/’’ 

« « » « 


A Death. 


161 


And  a silence  came  down  for  awhile. 

And  her  lips  they  were  moving  in  prayer. 
And  her  face  it  wore  just  such  a smile 
As,  perhaps,  it  was  oft  wont  to  wear. 

Ere  the  heart  of  the  girl  knew  a guile. 

Ere  the  soul  of  the  girl  knew  the  wile. 

That  had  led  her  to  passion^s  despair. 


Death’s  shadows  crept  over  her  face. 
And  softened  the  hard  marks  of  care; 
Eepentance  had  won  a last  grace. 

And  the  Angel  of  Mercy  stood  there. 


THE  ROSARY  OF  MY  TEARS. 


Some  reckon  their  age  by  years. 

Some  measure  their  life  by  art; 

But  some  tell  their  days  by  the  flow  of  their  tears^ 
And  their  lives  by  the  moans  of  their  heart. 

The  dials  of  earth  may  show 
The  length,  not  the  depth,  of  years. 

Pew  or  many  they  come,  few  or  many  they  g(\ 
But  time  is  best  measured  by  tears. 


Ah!  not  by  the  silver  gray 

That  creeps  thro’  the  sunny  hair. 

And  not  by  the  scenes  that  we  pass  on  our  way. 
And  not  by  the  furrows  the  fingers  of  care 


On  forehead  and  face  have  made. 

Not  so  do  we  count  our  years; 

Not  by  the  sun  of  the  earth,  but  the  shade 
Of  our  souls,  and  the  fall  of  our  tears. 


The  Rosary  of  My  Tears. 


153 


For  the  young  are  oft-times  old, 

Though  their  brows  be  bright  and  fair; 

While  their  blood  beats  warm,  their  hearts  are  cold-— 
O’er  them  the  spring — ^but  winter  is  there. 


And  the  old  are  oft-times  young. 

When  their  hair  is  thin  and  white; 

And  they  sing  in  age,  as  in  youth  they  sung. 
And  they  laugh,  for  their  cross  was  light. 


But,  bead  by  bead,  I tell 
The  rosary  of  my  years; 

From  a cross  to  a cross  they  lead;  tis  well. 
And  they’re  blest  with  a blessing  of  tears. 


Better  a day  of  strife 
Than  a century  of  sleep; 

Give  me  instead  of  a long  stream  of  life 
The  tempests  and  tears  of  the  deep. 

A thousand  joys  may  foam 

On  the  billows  of  all  the  years; 

But  never  the  foam  brings  the  lone  back  hom^— 
It  reaches  the  haven  through  tears. 


DEATH. 


Out  of  the  shadows  of  sadness. 

Into  the  sunshine  of  gladness. 

Into  the  light  of  the  blest; 

Out  of  a land  very  dreary, 

Out  of  the  world  very  weary. 

Into  the  rapture  of  rest. 

Out  of  to-day^s  sin  and  sorrow, 

Into  a blissful  to-morrow. 

Into  a day  without  gloom; 

Out  of  a land  filled  with  sighing. 
Land  of  the  dead  and  the  dying. 

Into  a land  without  tomb. 

Out  of  a life  of  commotion. 
Tempest-swept  oft  as  the  ocean. 

Dark  with  the  wrecks  drifting  o’er, 
Into  a land  calm  and  quiet. 

Never  a storm  cometh  nigh  it. 

Never  a wreck  on  its  shore. 


(164) 


Death. 


155 


Out  of  a land  in  whose  bowers 
Perish  and  fade  all  the  flowers; 

Out  of  the  land  of  decay. 

Into  the  Eden  where  fairest 
Of  flowerlets,  and  sweetest  and  rarest^ 
Never  shall  wither  away. 

Out  of  the  world  of  the  wailing 
Thronged  with  the  anguished  and  ailing; 

Out  of  the  world  of  the  sad, 

Into  the  world  that  rejoices — 

World  of  bright  visions  and  voices— 

Into  the  world  of  the  glad. 

Out  of  a life  ever  mournful. 

Out  of  a land  very  lornful. 

Where  in  bleak  exile  we  roam. 

Into  a joy-land  above  us. 

Where  there’s  a Father  to  love  us— 

Into  our  home — "Sweet  Home.** 


WHAT  AILS  THE  WORLD? 


'^What  ails  the  world the  poet  cried; 

^^And  why  does  death  walk  everywhere? 

And  why  do  tears  fall  anywhere? 

And  skies  have  clouds,  and  souls  have  care?’^ 
Thus  the  poet  sang,  and  sighed. 

For  he  would  fain  have  all  things  glad, 

All  lives  happy,  all  hearts  bright; 

Not  a day  would  end  in  night. 

Not  a wrong  would  vex  a right— 

And  so  he  sang — and  he  was  sad. 

Thro^  his  very  grandest  rhymes 
Moved  a mournful  monotone— 

Like  a shadow  eastward  thrown 
From  a sunset — like  a moan 
Tangled  in  a joy-bell’s  chimes. 

‘^What  ails  the  world?”  he  sang  and  asked— 

And  asked  and  sang — but  all  in  vain; 

No  answer  came  to  any  strain, 

And  no  reply  to  his  refrain — 

The  mystery  moved  ’round  him  masked. 


What  Ails  the  World. 


157 


‘^What  ails  the  world  An  echo  came — 

^^Ails  the  world  The  minstrel  hands. 
With  famous  or  forgotten  hands. 

Lift  up  their  lyres  in  all  the  lands. 

And  chant  alike,  and  ask  the  same 

From  him  whose  soul  first  soared  in  song, 

A thousand,  thousand  years  away. 

To  him  who  sang  but  yesterday, 

In  dying  or  in  deathless  lay — 

“What  ails  the  world  comes  from  the  throng. 

They  fain  would  sing  the  world  to  rest; 

And  so  they  chant  in  countless  keys. 

As  many  as  the  waves  of  seas. 

And  as  the  breathings  of  the  breeze. 

Yet  even  when  they  sing  their  best — 

When  o’er  the  listening  world  there  floats 
Such  melody  as  ’raptures  men — 

When  all  look  up  entranced — and  when 
The  song  of  fame  floats  forth,  e’en  then 
A discord  creepeth  through  the  notes. 

Their  sweetest  harps  have  broken  strings. 

Their  grandest  accords  have  their  jars. 
Like  shadows  on  the  light  of  stars. 

And  somehow,  something  ever  mars 
The  songs  the  greatest  minstrel  sings. 


r58 


What  Ails  the  World. 


And  so  each  song  is  incomplete. 

And  not  a rhyme  can  ever  round 
Into  the  chords  of  perfect  sound 
The  tones  of  thought  that  e^'er  surround 
The  ways  walked  by  the  poet^s  feet. 

*^What  ails  the  world  he  sings  and  sighs; 
No  answer  cometh  to  his  cry. 

He  asks  the  earth  and  asks  the  sky— 
The  echoes  of  his  song  pass  by 
Unanswered — ^and  the  poet  dies* 


A THOUGHT. 


There  never  was  a valley  without  a faded  flower, 
There  never  was  a heaven  without  some  little  cloud; 
The  face  of  day  may  flash  with  light  in  any  morning 
hour, 

But  evening  soon  shall  come  with  her  shadow-woveu 
shroud. 


There  never  was  a river  without  its  mists  of  gray, 

There  never  was  a forest  without  its  fallen  leaf; 

And  joy  may  walk  beside  us  down  the  windings  of  our 
way. 

When,  lo!  there  sounds  a footstep,  and  we  meet  the 
face  of  grief. 

There  never  was  a seashore  without  its  drifting  wreck, 
There  never  was  an  ocean  without  its  moaning  wave; 

And  the  golden  gleams  of  glory  the  Summer  sky  that 
fleck. 

Shine  where  dead  stars  are  sleeping  in  their  azure- 
mantled  grave. 


160 


A Thought. 


There  never  was  a streamlet,  however  crystal  clear. 
Without  a shadow  resting  in  the  ripples  of  its  tide; 
Hope’s  brightest  robes  are  broidered  with  the  sable 
fringe  of  fear, 

And  she  lures  us,  but  abysses  girt  her  path  on  either 
side. 


The  shadow  of  the  mountain  falls  athwart  the  lowly 
plain, 

And  the  shadow  of  the  cloudlet  hangs  above  the 
mountain’s  head, 

And  the  highest  hearts  and  lowest  wear  the  shadow  of 
some  pain. 

And  the  smile  has  scarcely  flitted  ere  the  anguish’d 
tear  is  shed. 

/ 

For  no  eyes  have  there  been  ever  without  a weary  tear. 

And  those  lips  cannot  be  human  which  have  never 
heaved  a sigh; 

For  without  the  dreary  Winter  there  has  never  been  a 
year, 

And  the  tempests  hide  their  terrors  in  the  calmest 
Summer  sky. 


A Thought. 


161 


The  cradle  means  the  coffin,  and  the  coffin  means  the 
grave; 

The  mother’s  song  scarce  hides  t\iQ  De  prof  undis  oi 
the  priest; 

You  may  cull  the  fairest  roses  any  May-day  ever  gave, 
But  they  wither  while  you  wear  them  ere  the  ending 
of  your  feast. 


So  this  dreary  life  is  passing — and  we  move  amid  its 
maze. 

And  we  grope  along  together,  half  in  darkness,  half 
in  light; 

And  our  hearts  are  often  burdened  by  the  mysteries  of 
our  ways, 

Which  are  never  all  in  shadow  and  are  never  wholly 
bright. 


And  our  dim  eyes  ask  a beacon,  and  our  weary  feet  a 
guide. 

And  our  hearts  of  all  life’s  mysteries  seek  the  mean- 
ing and  the  key; 

And  a cross  gleams  o’er  our  pathway — on  it  hangs  the 
Crucified, 

And  He  answers  all  our  yearnings  by  the  whisper, 
^‘Follow  Me.” 


162 


A Thought. 


Life  is  a burden;  bear  it; 

Life  is  a duty;  dare  it; 

Life  is  a thorn-crown;  wear  it, 

Though  it  break  your  heart  in  twain; 

Though  the  burden  crush  you  down 
Close  your  lips,  and  hide  your  pain. 
First  the  cross,  and  then,  the  crown. 


I 


Iisr  ROME. 


At  lasii^  ' lie  dream  of  youth 
Stands  fair  and  bright  before 
The  sunshine  of  the  home  of  truth 
Falls  tremulously  o’er  me. 


And  tower,  and  spire,  and  lofty  dome 
In  brightest  skies  are  gleaming; 
Walk  I,  to-day,  the  ways  of  Eome, 

Or  am  I only  dreaming? 


No,  ’tis  no  dream ; my  very  eyes 
Gaze  on  the  hill-tops  seven; 

Where  crosses  rise  and  kiss  the  skies. 
And  grandly  point  to  Heaven. 


Gray  ruins  loom  on  eVry  side. 
Each  stone  an  age’s  story; 

They  seem  the  very  ghosts  of  pride 
That  watch  the  grave  of  glory. 
068) 


164 


In  Rome. 


There  senates  sat,  whose  sceptre  sought 
An  empire  without  limit; 

There  grandeur  dreamed  its  dream  and  thought 
That  death  would  never  dim  it. 


There  rulers  reigned;  yon  heap  of  stoneg 
Was  once  their  gorgeous  palace; 

Beside  them  now,  on  altar-thrones. 

The  priests  lift  up  the  chalice. 


There  legions  marched  with  bucklers  bright. 
And  lances  lifted  o’er  them; 

While  flags,  like  eagles  plumed  for  flight, 
Ynfurled  their  wings  before  them. 


There  poets  sang,  whose  deathless  name 
Is  linked  to  deathless  verses; 

There  heroes  hushed  with  shouts  of  fame 
Their  trampled  victim’s  curses. 


There  marched  the  warriors  back  to  home. 
Beneath  yon  crumbling  portal. 

And  placed  upon  the  brow  of  Eome 
The  proud  crown  of  immortal. 


In  Rome. 


165 


There  soldiers  stood  with  armor  on. 

In  steel-clad  ranks  and  serried, 

The  while  their  red  swords  flashed  upon 
The  slaves  whose  rights  they  buried. 


Here  Pagan  pride,  with  sceptre,  stood^ 
And  fame  would  not  forsake  it, 
Until  a simple  cross  of  wood 
Came  from  the  East  to  break  it. 


That  Eome  is  dead — here  is  the  grave— 
Dead  glory  rises  never; 

And  countless  crosses  o’er  it  wave. 

And  will  wave  on  forever. 


Beyond  the  Tiber  gleams  a dome 
Above  the  hill-tops  seven; 

It  arches  o’er  the  world  from  Rome, 
And  leads  the  world  to  Heaven. 


December  6, 


AFTER  SICKNESS. 


I KEARLY  died,  I almost  touched  the  door 
That  swings  between  forever  and  no  more; 

I think  I heard  the  awful  hinges  grate. 
Hour  after  hour,  while  I did  weary  wait 
Death’s  coming;  but  alas!  ’twas  all  in  vain: 
The  door  half-opened  and  then  closed  again. 


What  were  my  thoughts?  I had  but  one  regret — 
That  I was  doomed  to  live  and  linger  yet 
In  this  dark  valley  where  the  stream  of  tears 
Flows,  and,  in  flowing,  deepens  thro’  the  years. 

My  lips  spake  not — my  eyes  were  dull  and  dim. 

But  thro’  my  heart  there  moved  a soundless  hymn— 
A triumph-song  of  many  chords  and  keys. 
Transcending  language — as  the  Summer  breeze. 
Which,  through  the  forest  mystically  floats, 
Transcends  the  reach  of  mortal  music’s  notes. 

A song  of  victory — a chant  of  bliss: 

Wedded  to  words,  it  might  have  been  like  this: 


(166) 


After  SicTcness^ 


167 


^^Oome,  death!  but  I am  fearless, 

I shrink  not  from  your  frown; 

The  eyes  you  close  are  tearless; 

Haste!  strike  this  frail  form  down. 
Come!  there  is  no  dissembling 
In  this  last,  solemn  hour, 

But  you’ll  find  my  heart  untremhling 
Before  your  awful  power. 

My  lips  grow  pale  and  paler, 

My  eyes  are  strangely  dim, 

I wail  not  as  a wailer, 

I sing  a victor’s  hymn. 

My  limbs  grow  cold  and  colder^ 

My  room  is  all  in  gloom; 

Bold  death! — but  I am  holder — 
Come!  lead  me  to  my  tomb! 

•Tis  cold,  and  damp,  and  dreary, 

^Tis  still,  and  lone,  and  deep; 

Haste,  death!  my  eyes  are  weary, 

I want  to  fall  asleep. 

^Strike  quick!  Why  dost  thou  tarry? 
Of  time  why  such  a loss? 

Dost  fear  the  sign  I carry? 

’Tis  but  a simple  cross. 


168 


After  Sickness. 


Thou  wilt  not  strike  ? Then  hear  me: 

Come!  strike  in  any  hour, 

My  heart  shall  never  fear  thee 
Nor  flinch  before  thy  power. 

Fll  meet  thee — time’s  dread  lictor — 
And  my  wasted  lips  shall  sing: 

^ Dread  death!  I am  the  victor! 

Strong  death!  where  is  thy  sting 


Milan,  January,  1873. 


OLD  TREES. 


Old  trees!  old  trees!  in  your  mystic  gloom 
There’s  many  a warrior  laid, 

And  many  a nameless  and  lonely  tomb 
Is  sheltered  beneath  your  shade. 

Old  trees!  old  trees!  without  pomp  or  prayer 
We  buried  the  brave  and  the  true, 

We  fired  a volley  and  left  them  there 
To  rest,  old  trees,  with  you. 


Old  trees,  old  trees,  keep  watch  and  ward 
Over  each  grass-grown  bed ; 

’Tis  a glory,  old  trees,  to  stand  as  guard 
Over  our  Southern  dead; 

Old  trees,  old  trees,  we  shall  pass  away 
Like  the  leaves  you  yearly  shed. 

But  ye!  lone  sentinels,  still  must  stay, 
Old  trees,  to  guard  ^^our  dead.’^ 


AFTER  SEEING  PIUS  IX. 


I SAW  his  face  to-day;  he  looks  a chief 

Who  fears  nor  human  rage,  nor  human  guil^j; 
Upon  his  cheeks  the  twilight  of  a grief, 

But  in  that  grief  the  starlight  of  a smile. 

Deep,  gentle  eyes,  with  drooping  lids  that  tell 
They  are  the  homes  where  tears  of  sorrow  dwell; 

A low  voice — strangely  sweet — whose  very  tone 
Tells  how  these  lips  speak  oft  with  God  alone. 

I kissed  his  hand,  I fain  would  kiss  his  feet; 

"No,  no,’’  he  said;  and  then,  in  accents  sweet, 

His  blessing  fell  upon  my  bended  head. 

He  bade  me  rise;  a few  more  words  he  said. 

Then  took  me  by  the  hand — the  while  he  smiled — • 
And,  going,  whispered:  "Pray  for  me,  my  child.” 


SENTINEL  SONG& 


Wheis"  falls  the  soldier  brave. 

Dead  at  the  feet  of  wrong. 

The  poet  sings  and  guards  his  grave 
With  sentinels  of  song. 


Songs,  march!  he  gives  command. 

Keep  faithful  watch  and  true; 

The  living  and  dead  of  the  conquered  land 
Have  now  no  guards  save  you. 


Gray  ballads!  mark  ye  well  I 
Thrice  holy  is  your  trust! 

Go!  halt  by  the  fields  where  warriors  fell; 
Best  arms!  and  guard  their  dust. 


List!  Songs!  your  watch  is  long. 

The  soldiers^  guard  was  brief; 

Whilst  right  is  right,  and  wrong  is  wrong. 
Ye  may  not  seek  relief. 


172 


Sentinel  Songs. 


Go!  wearing  the  gray  of  grief! 

Go!  watch  o’er  the  dead  in  gray! 

Go!  guard  the  private  and  guard  the  chie^ 
And  sentinel  their  clayl 


And  the  songs,  in  stately  rhyme 
And  with  softly-sounding  tread. 

Go  forth,  to  watch  for  a time — a time— 
Where  sleep  the  Deathless  Dead, 


And  the  songs,  like  funeral  dirge, 

In  music  soft  and  low. 

Sing  round  the  graves,  whilst  hot  tears  surge 
From  hearts  that  are  homes  of  woe. 


What  tho’  no  sculptured  shaft 
Immortalize  each  brave  ? 

What  tho’  no  monument  epitaphed 
Be  built  above  each  grave? 

When  marble  wears  away 
And  monuments  are  dust, 

The  songs  that  guard  our  soldiers’  clay 
Will  still  fulfill  their  trust. 


Sentinel  Songs. 


173 


With  lifted  head  and  steady  tread. 

Like  stars  that  guard  the  skies, 

Go  watch  each  bed  where  rest  the  dead. 
Brave  songs,  with  sleepless  eyes. 

When  falls  the  cause  of  Eight, 

The  poet  grasps  his  pen. 

And  in  gleaming  letters  of  living  light 
Transmits  the  truth  to  men. 


Go!  songs!  he  says  who  sings; 

Go!  tell  the  world  this  tale; 
Bear  it  afar  on  your  tireless  wings: 
The  Eight  will  yet  prevail. 


Songs!  sound  like  the  thunder’s  breath  I 
Boom  o’er  the  world  and  say: 

Brave  men  may  die — Eight  has  no  deathl 
Truth  never  shall  pass  away! 


Go!  sing  thro’  a nation’s  sighs  I 
Go!  sob  thro’  a people’s  tears! 

Sweep  the  horizons  of  all  the  skies, 

And  throb  through  a thousand  years! 

♦ ^ 


174 


Sentinel  Songs. 


And  the  songs,  with  brave,  sad  face. 

Go  proudly  down  their  way. 

Wailing  the  loss  of  a conquered  race 
And  waiting  an  Easter-day. 


Away!  away!  like  the  birds, 

They  soar  in  their  flight  sublime; 

And  the  waving  wings  of  the  poet’s  words 
Flash  down  to  the  end  of  time. 


When  the  flag  of  justice  fails. 

Ere  its  folds  have  yet  been  furled. 
The  poet  waves  its  folds  in  wails 
That  flutter  o’er  the  world. 


Songs,  march!  and  in  rank  by  rank 
The  low,  wild  verses  go. 

To  watch  the  graves  where  the  grass  is  dank, 
And  the  martyrs  sleep  below. 


Songs!  halt  where  there  is  no  name  I 
Songs!  stay  where  there  is  no  stone! 
And  wait  till  you  hear  the  feet  of  Fame 
Coming  to  where  ye  moan. 


Sentinel  Songs. 


175 


And  the  songs,  with  lips  that  mourn, 

And  with  hearts  that  break  in  twain 
At  the  beck  of  the  bard — a hope  forlorn — 
Watch  the  plain  where  sleep  the  slain. 

3|C  SK  3|:  SK  4s 

When  the  warrior^s  sword  is  lowered 
Ere  its  stainless  sheen  grows  dim. 

The  bard  flings  forth  its  dying  gleam 
On  the  wings  of  a deathless  hymn. 


Songs!  fly  far  o’er  the  world 
And  adown  to  the  end  of  time: 

Let  the  sword  still  flash,  tho’  its  flag  be  furled, 
Thro’  the  sheen  of  the  poet’s  rhyme. 


Songs!  fly  as  the  eagles  fly! 

The  bard  unbars  the  cage; 

Go  soar  away,  and  afar  and  high 
Wave  your  wings  o’er  every  age. 


Shriek  shrilly  o’er  each  day, 

As  futureward  ye  fly. 

That  the  men  were  right  who  wore  the  gray, 
And  Eight  can  never  die. 


176 


Sentind  Songs. 


And  the  songs,  with  waving  wing, 
yiy  far,  float  far  away 

From  the  ages’  crests ; o’er  the  world  they  fling 
The  shade  of  the  stainless  gray. 


Might  1 sing  your  triumph-songsl 
Each  song  hut  sounds  a shame ; 

Go  down  the  world,  in  loud-voiced  throngs, 
To  win,  from  the  future,  fame. 


Our  ballads,  born  of  tears. 

Will  track  you  on  your  way, 

And  win  the  hearts  of  the  future  years 
For  the  men  who  wore  the  gray. 


And  so — say  what  you  will— 

In  the  heart  of  God’s  own  laws 
1 have  a faith,  and  my  heart  believes  still 
In  the  triumph  of  our  cause. 

Such  hope  may  all  be  vain. 

And  futile  be  such  trust; 

But  the  weary  eyes  that  weep  the  slain. 
And  watch  above  such  dust, 


Sentinel  Songs. 


177 


They  cannot  help  but  lift 
Their  visions  to  the  skies; 

They  watch  the  clouds,  but  wait  the  rift 
Through  which  their  hope  shall  rise. 


The  victor  wields  the  sword: 

Its  blade  may  broken  be 
By  a thought  that  sleeps  in  a deathless  word. 
To  wake  in  the  years  to  be. 


W'e  wait  a grand-voiced  bard, 
Who,  when  he  sings,  will  send 
Immortal  songs’  Imperial  Guard 
The  Lost  Cause  to  defend. 


He  has  not  come;  he  will. 

But  when  he  chants,  his  song 
Will  stir  the  world  to  its  depths  and  thrill 
The  earth  with  its  tale  of  wrong. 


The  fallen  cause  still  waits — 

Its  bard  has  not  come  yet. 

His  song  through  one  of  to-morrow’s  gates 
Shall  shine,  but  never  set* 


178 


Sentinel  Songs. 


But  when  he  comes  he’ll  sweep 
A harp  with  tears  all  stringed, 

And  the  very  notes  he  strikes  will  weep 
As  they  come  from  his  hand  woe-winged. 


Ah!  grand  shall  be  his  strain. 

And  his  songs  shall  fill  all  climes, 

And  the  rebels  shall  rise  and  march  again 
Down  the  lines  of  his  glorious  rhyme& 


And  through  his  verse  shall  gleam 
The  swords  that  flashed  in  vain. 

And  the  men  who  wore  the  gray  shall  seem 
To  be  marshaling  again. 


But  hush!  between  his  words 
Peer  faces  sad  and  pale. 

And  you  hear  the  sound  of  broken  chords 
Beat  through  the  poet’s  wail. 

Through  his  verse  the  orphans  cry— 

The  terrible  undertone — 

And  the  father’s  curse  and  the  mother’s  sigh. 
And  the  desolate  young  wife’s  moan. 

• ^ ♦ s « * 


Sentinel  Songs, 


179 


But  harps  are  in  every  land 
That  await  a voice  that  sings, 

And  a master-hand — hut  the  humblest  hand 
May  gently  touch  its  strings. 

I sing  with  a voice  too  low 
To  be  heard  beyond  to-day, 

In  minor  keys  of  my  people’s  woe. 

But  my  songs  pass  away. 


To-morrow  hears  them  not — 
To-morrow  belongs  to  fame — 

My  songs,  like  the  birds’,  will  be  forgot, 
And  forgotten  shall  be  my  name. 


And  yet  who  knows?  Betimes 
The  grandest  songs  depart. 

While  the  gentle,  humble,  and  low-toned  rhymes 
Will  echo  from  heart  to  heart. 


But,  ohl  if  in  song  or  speech, 

In  major  or  minor  key. 

My  voice  could  over  the  ages  reach, 
I would  whisper  the  name  of  Lee. 


180 


Sentinel  Songs. 


In  the  night  of  our  defeat 
Star  after  star  had  gone. 

But  the  way  was  bright  to  our  soldiers^  feet 
Where  the  star  of  Lee  led  on. 


But  sudden  there  came  a cloud. 

Out  rung  a nation^'s  knell ; 

Our  cause  was  wrapped  in  its  winding  shroud, 
All  fell  when  the  great  Lee  fell. 


From  his  men,  with  scarce  a word. 

Silence  when  great  hearts  part! 

But  we  know  he  sheathed  his  stainless  sword 
In  the  wound  of  a broken  heart. 

He  fled  from  Fame;  but  Fame 
Sought  him  in  his  retreat. 

Demanding  for  the  world  one  name 
Made  deathless  by  defeat. 


Nayl  fame!  success  is  best! 

All  lost!  and  nothing  won: 

North,  keep  the  clouds  that  flush  the  West* 
We  have  the  sinking  sun. 


Sentinel  Songs. 


181 


All  lost!  but  by  the  graves 
Where  martyred  heroes  rest. 

He  wins  the  most  who  honor  saves— 
Success  is  not  the  test 


All  lost!  a nation  weeps; 

By  all  the  tears  that  fall. 

He  loses  naught  who  conscience  keeps, 
Lee^s  honor  saves  us  all. 


All  lost!  but  e^en  defeat 
Hath  triumphs  of  her  own. 
Wrong’s  p80an  hath  no  note  so  sweet 
As  trampled  Eight’s  proud  moan# 


The  world  shall  yet  decide, 

In  truth’s  clear,  far-off  light. 

That  the  soldiers  who  wore  the  gray,  and  died 
With  Lee,  were  in  the  right. 


And  men,  by  time  made  wise^ 

Shall  in  the  future  see 
Ko  name  hath  risen,  or  ever  shall  rise^ 
like  the  name  of  Eobert  Lee# 


182 


Sentinel  Songs. 


Ah  me!  my  words  are  weak, 

This  task  surpasses  me; 

Dead  soldiers!  rise  from  your  graves  and  speak^ 
And  tell  how  you  loved  Lee. 


The  Danner  you  bore  is  furled, 

And  the  gray  is  faded,  too! 

But  in  all  the  colors  that  deck  the  world 
Your  gray  blends  not  with  blue. 


The  colors  are  far  apart, 

Graves  sever  them  in  twain ; 

The  Northern  heart  and  the  Sortv  vn  heart 
May  beat  in  peace  again; 


But  still  till  time’s  last  day. 
Whatever  lips  may  plight. 

The  blue  is  blue,  but  gray  b gray. 
Wrong  never  accords  wi\h  Bight 


Go!  Glory,  and  forever  guard 
Our  chieftain’s  hallowed  dust; 
And  Honor!  keep  eternal  ward! 
And  Fame!  be  this  thy  trustl 


Sentinel  Songs. 


183 


Go!  with  your  bright  emblazoned  scroll 
And  tell  the  years  to  be, 

The  first  of  names  that  fiash  your  roll 
Is  ours — ^great  Kobert  Lee. 


Lee  wore  the  gray!  since  then 
’Tis  Eight’s  and  Honor’s  hue  I 
He  honored  it,  that  man  of  men. 
And  wrapped  it  round  the  true. 


Dead!  but  his  spirit  breathes  I 
Dead!  but  his  heart  is  ours! 

Dead!  but  his  sunny  and  sad  land  wreathes 
His  crown  with  tears  for  flowers. 


A statue  for  his  tombi 
Mould  it  of  marble  white! 

For  wrong,  a spectre  of  death  and  doom; 
An  angel  of  hope  for  Eight. 


But  Lee  has  a thousand  graves 
In  a thousand  hearts  I ween; 

And  tear-drops  fall  from  our  eyes  in  waves 
That  will  keep  his  memory  green. 


184 


Sentinel  Songs. 


Ah!  Muse,  you  dare  not  claim 
A nobler  man  than  he. 

Nor  nobler  man  hath  less  of  blame. 
Nor  blameless  man  hath  purer  name, 
Nor  purer  name  hath  grander  fame, 
Nor  fame — another  Lee. 


FRAGMENTS  FROM  AN  EPIC  POEM. 


A MYSTERY. 


His  face  was  sad;  some  shadow  must  have  hung 
Above  his  soul;  its  folds,  now  falling  dark, 

Now  almost  bright;  but  dark  or  not  so  dark. 

Like  cloud  upon  a mount,  ^twas  always  there— 

A shadow ; and  his  face  was  always  sad. 

His  eyes  were  changeful;  for  the  gloom  of  gray 
Within  them  met  and  blended  with  the  blue, 

And  when  they  gazed  they  seemed  almost  to  dream 
They  looked  beyond  you  into  far-away. 

And  often  drooped;  his  face  was  always  sad. 

His  eyes  were  deep;  I often  saw  them  dim. 

As  if  the  edges  of  a cloud  of  tears 
Had  gathered  there,  and  only  left  a mist 
That  made  them  moist  and  kept  them  ever  moist 
He  never  wept;  his  face  was  always  sad. 


186 


Fragments  from  an  Epic  Poem. 


I mean,  not  many  saw  him  ever  weep. 

And  yet  he  seemed  as  one  who  often  wept. 

Or  always,  tears  that  were  too  proud  to  flow 
In  outer  streams,  but  shrunk  within  and  froze— 
Froze  down  into  himself;  his  face  was  sad. 

And  yet  sometimes  he  smiled — a sudden  smile. 

As  if  some  far-gone  joy  came  back  again. 

Surprised  his  heart,  and  flashed  across  his  face 
A moment,  like  a light  through  rifts  in  clouds. 
Which  falls  upon  an  unforgotten  grave; 

He  rarely  laughed;  his  face  was  ever  sad. 

And  when  he  spoke  his  words  were  sad  as  wails. 
And  strange  as  stories  of  an  unknown  land, 

And  full  of  meanings  as  the  sea  of  moans. 

At  times  he  was  so  still  that  silence  seemed 

To  sentinel  his  lips;  and  not  a word 

Would  leave  his  heart;  his  face  was  strangely  sad. 

But  then  at  times  his  speech  flowed  like  a stream— 
A deep  and  dreamy  stream  through  lonely  dells 
Of  lofty  mountain-thoughts,  and  o’er  its  waves 
Hung  mysteries  of  gloom;  and  in  its  flow 
It  rippled  on  lone  shores  fair-fringed  with  flowers. 
And  deepened  as  it  flowed;  his  face  was  sad. 


Fragments  from  an  Epic  Poem. 


187 


He  had  his  moods  of  silence  and  of  speech. 

I asked  him  once  the  reason,  and  he  said: 

‘^When  I speak  much,  my  words  are  only  words. 
When  I speak  least,  my  words  are  more  than  words, 
When  I speak  not,  I then  reveal  myself!” 

It  was  his  way  of  saying  things — ^he  spoke 
In  quaintest  riddles;  and  his  face  was  sad. 


And,  when  he  wished,  he  wove  around  his  words 
A nameless  spell  that  marvelously  thrilled 
The  dullest  ear.  ’Twas  strange  that  he  so  cold 
Could  warm  the  coldest  heart;  that  he  so  hard 
Could  soften  hardest  soul;  that  he  so  still 
Could  rouse  the  stillest  mind;  his  face  was  sad. 


He  spoke  of  death  as  if  it  were  a toy 

For  thought  to  play  with;  and  of  life  he  spoke 

As  of  a toy  not  worth  the  play  of  thought; 

And  of  this  world  he  spake  as  captives  speak 
Of  prisons  where  they  pine;  he  spake  of  men 
As  one  who  found  pure  gold  in  each  of  them. 

He  spake  of  women  just  as  if  he  dreamed 
About  his  mother;  and  he  spoke  of  God 
As  if  he  walked  with  Him  and  knew  His  heart— 
But  he  was  weary,  and  his  face  was  sad. 


188 


Fragments  from  an  Epic  Poem. 


He  had  a weary  way  in  all  he  did. 

As  if  he  dragged  a chain,  or  bore  a cross; 

And  yet  the  weary  went  to  him  for  rest. 

His  heart  seemed  scarce  to  know  an  earthly  joy. 
And  yet  the  joyless  were  rejoiced  by  him. 

He  seemed  to  have  two  selves — his  outer  self 
Was  free  to  any  passer-by,  and  kind  to  all, 

And  gentle  as  a child’s;  that  outer  self 
Kept  open  all  its  gates,  that  whoso  wished 
Might  enter  them  and  find  therein  a place; 

And  many  entered;  but  his  face  was  sad. 


The  inner  self  he  guarded  from  approach j 
He  kept  it  sealed  and  sacred  as  a shrine; 

He  guarded  it  with  silence  and  reserve; 

Its  gates  were  locked  and  watched,  and  none  might  pass 
Beyond  the  portals;  and  his  face  was  sad. 

But  whoso  entered  there- — and  few  were  they — ^ 

So  very  few — so  very,  very  few. 

They  never  did  forget;  they  said:  ^^How  strange!” 
They  murmured  still:  ^^How  strange!  how  strangely 
strange!” 

They  went  their  ways,  but  wore  a lifted  look. 

And  higher  meanings  came  to  common  words. 

And  lowly  thoughts  took  on  the  grandest  tones; 

And,  near  or  far,  they  never  did  forget 

The  Shadow  and  the  Shrine;”  his  face  was  sad. 


Fragments  from  an  Epic  Poem. 


189 


He  was  nor  young  nor  old — ^yet  he  was  both; 

Nor  both  by  turns,  but  always  both  at  once; 

For  youth  and  age  commingled  in  his  ways, 

His  words,  his  feelings,  and  his  thoughts  and  acts. 
At  times  the  ^^old  man’’  tottered  in  his  thoughts. 
The  child  played  thro’  his  words;  his  face  was  sad. 

I one  day  asked  his  age;  he  smiled  and  said: 

‘^The  rose  that  sleeps  upon  yon  valley’s  breast, 

Just  born  to-day,  is  not  as  young  as  I; 

The  moss-robed  oak  of  twice  a thousand  storms— 
An  acorn  cradled  ages  long  ago — 

Is  old,  in  sooth,  but  not  as  old  as  1.” 

It  was  his  way — he  always  answered  thus, 

But  when  he  did  his  face  was  very  sad. 

^ ^ ^ m 

SPIRIT  SOKG. 

Thou  wert  once  the  purest  wave 
Where  the  tempests  roar; 

Thou  art  now  a golden  wave 
On  the  golden  shore— 

Ever — ever — evermorel 

Thou  wert  once  the  bluest  wave 
Shadows  e’er  hung  o’er; 

Thou  art  now  the  brightest  wave 
On  the  brightest  shore — 

Ever — ever — evermore  I 


190 


Fragments  from  an  Fpio  Foem. 


Thou  wert  once  the  gentlest  wave 
Ocean  ever  bore; 

Thou  art  now  the  fairest  wave 
On  the  fairest  shore — 

Ever — ever — evermore  I 

Whiter  foam  than  thine,  0 wave, 

Wavelet  never  wore, 

Stainless  wave;  and  now  you  lave 
The  far  and  stormless  shore — 

Ever — ever — evermore ! 

Who  bade  thee  go,  0 bluest  wave, 

Beyond  the  tempest’s  roar? 

Who  bade  thee  flow,  0 fairest  wave 
Unto  the  golden  shore, 

Ever — ever — evermore  ? 

Who  waved  a hand,  0 purest  wave? 

A hand  that  blessings  bore, 

And  wafted  thee,  0 whitest  wave, 

Unto  the  fairest  shore, 

Ever — ever— evermore  ? 

Who  winged  thy  way,  0 holy  wave, 

In  days  and  days  of  yore? 

And  wept  the  words:  ‘^0  winsome  wave. 
This  earth  is  not  thy  shore!” 

Ever — ever — ever  m ore  ? 


Fragments  from  an  Epic  Poem. 


191 


Who  gave  thee  strength,  O snowy  wave — 

The  strength  a great  soul  wore — • 

And  said:  Float  up  to  God!  my  wave. 

His  heart  shall  be  thy  shore 
Ever — ever — evermore  ? 

Who  said  to  thee,  0 poor,  weak  wave: 

Thy  wail  shall  soon  be  o’er. 

Float  on  to  God,  and  leave  me,  wave. 

Upon  this  rugged  shore!” 

Ever — ever — evermore? 

And  thou  hast  reached  His  feet!  Glad  wave. 
Dost  dream  of  days  of  yore? 

Dost  yearn  that  we  shall  meet,  pure  wave. 
Upon  the  golden  shore, 

Ever — ever — evermore  ? 

Thou  sleepest  in  the  calm,  calm  wave. 

Beyond  the  wild  storm’s  roar! 

I watch  amid  the  storm,  bright  wave, 

Like  rock  upon  the  shore; 

Ever — ever— evermore ! 

Sing  at  the  feet  of  God,  white  wave. 

Song  sweet  as  one  of  yore! 

I would  not  bring  thee  back,  heart  wav^ 

To  break  upon  this  shore, 

Ever — ever — evermore  I 


192 


Fragments  from  an  Epic  Poem^ 


no/’  he  gently  spoke:  ^^You  know  me  not: 

My  mind  is  like  a temple,  dim,  yast,  lone; 

Just  like  a temple  when  the  priest  is  gone. 

And  all  the  hymns  that  rolled  along  the  vaults 
Are  buried  deep  in  silence;  when  the  lights 
That  flashed  on  altars  died  away  in  dark. 

And  when  the  flowers,  with  all  their  perfumed  breath 
And  beauteous  bloom,  lie  withered  on  the  shrine. 

My  mind  is  like  a temple,  solemn,  still. 

Untenanted  save  by  the  ghosts  of  gloom 
Which  seem  to  linger  in  the  holy  place — 

The  shadows  of  the  sinners  who  passed  there. 

And  wept,  and  spirit-shriven  left  upon 
The  marble  floor  memorials  of  their  tears.” 


And  while  he  spake,  his  words  sank  low  and  low, 
Until  they  hid  themselves  in  some  still  depth 
He  would  not  open;  and  his  face  was  sad. 


When  he  spoke  thus,  his  very  gentleness 
Passed  slowly  from  him,  and  his  look,  so  mild, 

Grew  marble  cold;  a pallor  as  of  death 
Whitened  his  lips,  and  clouds  rose  to  his  eyes. 

Dry,  rainless  clouds,  where  lightnings  seemed  to  sleep. 


Fragments  from  an  Epic  Poem. 


19a 


His  words,  as  tender  as  a rose’s  smile, 

Slow-hardened  into  thorns,  but  seemed  to  sting 
Himself  the  most;  his  brow,  at  such  times,  bent 
Most  lowly  down,  and  wore  such  look  of  pain 
As  though  it  bore  an  unseen  crown  of  thorns. 

Who  knows  ? perhaps  it  did ! 

But  he  would  pass 

His  hand  upon  his  brow,  or  touch  his  eyes. 

And  then  the  olden  gentleness,  like  light 
Which  seems  transfigured  by  the  touch  of  dark. 

Would  tremble  on  his  face,  and  he  would  look 
More  gentle  then  than  ever,  and  his  tone 
Would  sweeten,  like  the  winds  when  storms  have 
passed. 

I saw  him,  one  day,  thus  most  deeply  moved 
And  darkened;  ah!  his  face  was  like  a tomb 
That  hid  the  dust  of  dead  and  buried  smiles. 

But,  suddenly,  his  face  flashed  like  a throne. 

And  all  the  smiles  arose  as  from  the  dead. 

And  wore  the  glory  of  an  Easter  morn; 

And  passed  beneath  the  sceptre  of  a hope 
Which  came  from  some  far  region  of  his  heart, 

Came  up  into  his  eyes,  and  reigned  a queen. 

I marveled  much;  he  answered  to  my  look 
With  all  his  own,  and  wafted  me  these  words: 


194  Fragments  from  an  Epio  Poem. 

There  are  transitions  in  the  lives  of  all. 

There  are  transcendent  moments  when  we  stand 
In  Thabor’s  glory  with  the  chosen  three, 

And  weak  with  very  strength  of  human  love 
We  fain  would  build  our  tabernacles  there; 

And,  Peter-like,  for  very  human  joy 
We  cry  aloud:  ^^Tis  good  that  we  are  here;^ 
Swift  are  these  moments,  like  the  smile  of  God^ 
Which  glorifies  a shadow  and  is  gone. 


‘^And  then  we  stand  upon  another  mount — 

Dark,  rugged  Calvary;  and  God  keeps  us  there 
For  awful  hours,  to  make  us  there  His  own 
In  crucifixion’s  tortures;  ’tis  His  way. 

We  wish  to  cling  to  Thabor;  He  says:  ‘No.^ 

And  what  He  says  is  best  because  most  true. 

We  fain  would  fiy  from  Calvary;  He  says: 

And  it  is  true  because  it  is  the  best. 

And  yet,  my  friend,  these  two  mounts  are  the  sama 


^^They  lie  apart,  distinct  and  separate, 

And  yet — strange  mystery! — they  are  the  same. 
For  Calvary  is  a Thabor  in  the  dark, 

And  Thabor  is  a Calvary  in  the  light. 

It  is  the  mystery  of  Holy  ChristI 
It  is  the  mystery  of  you  and  mel 


Fragmcrds  from  an  Epio  Poem. 


195 


Earth’s  shadows  move,  as  moves  far-heaven’s  sun, 
And,  like  the  shadows  of  a dial,  we 
Tell,  darkly,  in  the  vale  the  very  hours 
The  sun  tells  brightly  in  the  sinless  skies. 

Dost  understand?”  I did  not  understand — 

Or  only  half;  his  face  was  very  sad. 

^^Dost  thou  not  understand  me?  Then  your  life 
Is  shallow  as  a brook  that  brawls  along 
Between  two  narrow  shores;  you  never  wept — 
You  never  wore  great  clouds  upon  your  brow 
As  mountains  wear  them;  and  you  never  wore 
Strange  glories  in  your  eyes,  as  sunset-skies 
Oft  wear  them;  and  your  lips — they  never  sighed 
Grand  sighs  which  bear  the  weight  of  all  the  soul; 
You  never  reached  your  arms  a-broad — a-high — 
To  grasp  far-worlds,  or  to  enclasp  the  sky. 

Life,  only  life,  can  understand  a life; 

Depth,  only  depth,  can  understand  the  deep. 

The  dewdrop  glist’ning  on  the  lily’s  face 
Can  never  learn  the  story  of  the  sea.” 

4:  9K  * ♦ Ip 

One  day  we  strolled  together  to  the  sea. 

Gray  evening  and  the  night  had  almost  met, 

We  walked  between  them,  silent,  to  the  shore. 

The  feet  of  weird-faced  waves  ran  up  the  beach 
Like  children  in  mad  play,  then  back  again 


196  Fragments  from  an  Epio  Poem 

As  if  the  spirit  of  the  land  pursued; 

Then  up  again — and  farther — and  they  flung 
White,  foamy  arms  around  each  other’s  neck; 

Then  back  again  with  sudden  rush  and  shout. 

As  if  the  sea,  their  mother,  called  them  home; 

Then  leaned  upon  her  breast,  as  if  so  tired, 

But  swiftly  tore  themselves  away  and  rushed 
Away,  and  further  up  the  beach,  and  fell 
For  utter  weariness;  and  loudly  sobbed 
For  strength  to  rise  and  flow  back  to  the  deep. 

But  all  in  vain,  for  other  waves  swept  on 
A.nd  trampled  them;  the  sea  cried  out  in  grief, 

The  gray  beach  laughed,  and  clasped  them  to  the  sand& 
it  was  the  flood-tide  and  the  even-tide — 

Between  the  evening  and  the  night  we  walked — 

We  walked  between  the  billows  and  the  beach. 

We  walked  between  the  future  and  the  past, 

Down  to  the  sea  we  twain  had  strolled — to  part. 

The  shore  was  low,  with  just  the  faintest  rise 
Of  many-colored  sands  and  shreds  of  shells, 

Until  about  a stone’s  far  throw  they  met 
A fringe  of  faded  grass,  with  here  and  there 
A pale-green  shrub;  and  farther  into  land — 

Another  stone’s  throw  farther— there  were  trees— 

Tall,  dark,  wild  trees,  with  entertwining  arms. 

Each  almost  touching  each,  as  if  they  feared 


Fragments  from  an  Epic  Poem. 


197 


To  stand  alone  and  look  upon  the  sea. 

The  night  was  in  the  trees — the  evening  on  the  shore. 
We  walked  between  the  evening  and  the  night — 
Between  the  trees  and  tide  we  silent  strolled. 

There  lies  between  man’s  silence  and  his  speech 
A shadowy  valley,  where  thro’  those  who  pass 
Are  never  silent,  tho’  they  may  not  speak ; 

And  yet  they  more  than  breathe.  It  is  the  vale 
Of  wordless  sighs,  half-uttered  and  half-heard. 

It  is  the  vale  of  the  unutterable. 

We  walked  between  our  silence  and  our  speech. 

And  sighed  between  the  sunset  and  the  stars. 

One  hour  beside  the  sea. 

There  was  a cloud 
Far  o’er  the  reach  of  waters,  hanging  low 
’Tween  sea  and  sky — the  banner  of  the  storm. 

Its  edges  faintly  bright,  as  if  the  rays 
That  fled  far  down  the  West  had  rested  there 
And  slumbered,  and  had  left  a dream  of  light 
Its  inner  folds  were  dark — its  central,  more. 

It  did  not  flutter;  there  it  hung,  as  calm 
As  banner  in  a temple  o’er  a shrine. 

Its  shadow  only  fell  upon  the  sea, 

Above  the  shore  the  heavens  bended  blue. 

We  walked  between  the  cloudless  and  the  cloud, 

That  hour,  beside  the  sea. 


198  Fragments  from  an  Epic  Poem. 

But,  quick  as  thought, 

There  gleamed  a sword  of  wild,  terrific  light — 

Its  hilt  in  heaven,  its  point  hissed  in  the  sea, 

Its  scabbard  in  the  darkness — and  it  tore 
The  bannered  cloud  into  a thousand  shreds. 

Then  quivered  far  away,  and  bent  and  broke 
In  flashing  fragments; 

And  there  came  a peal 

That  shook  the  mighty  sea  from  shore  to  shore. 
But  did  not  stir  a sand-grain  on  the  beach ; 

Then  silence  fell,  and  where  the  low  cloud  hung 
Clouds  darker  gathered — ^and  they  proudly  waved 
Like  fiags  before  a battle. 


We  twain  walked— 

We  walked  between  the  lightning’s  parted  gleams. 
We  walked  between  the  thunders  of  the  skies, 

We  walked  between  the  wavings  of  the  clouds. 

We  walked  between  the  tremblings  of  the  sea. 

We  walked  between  the  stillnesses  and  roars 
Of  frightened  billows;  and  we  walked  between 
The  coming  tempest  and  the  dying  calm— 
Between  the  tranquil  and  the  terrible— 

That  hour  beside  the  sea, 


Fragments  from  an  Fple  Poem. 


199 


There  was  a rock 

Par  up  the  winding  beach  that  jutted  in 
The  sea,  and  broke  the  heart  of  every  wave 
That  struck  its  breast;  not  steep  enough  nor  high 
To  be  a cliff,  nor  yet  sufficient  rough 
To  be  a crag;  a simple,  low,  lone  rock; 

Yet  not  so  low  as  that  its  brow  was  laved 
By  highest  tide,  yet  not  sufficient  high 
To  rise  beyond  the  reach  of  silver-spray 
That  rained  up  from  the  waves — their  tears  that  fell 
Upon  its  face,  when  they  died  at  his  feet. 

Around  its  sides  damp  sea-weed  hung  in  long. 

Sad  tresses,  dripping  down  into  the  sea. 

A tuft  or  two  of  grass  did  green  the  rock, 

A patch  or  so  of  moss;  the  rest  was  bare. 


Adown  the  shore  we  walked  ^tween  eve  and  night; 
But  when  we  reached  the  rock  the  eve  and  night 
Had  met;  light  died;  we  sat  down  in  the  dark 
Upon  the  rock. 


Meantime  a thousand  cloud# 
Careered  and  clashed  in  air — a thousand  waves 
Whirled  wildly  on  in  wrath — a thousand  winds 
Howled  hoarsely  on  the  main;  and  down  the  skies 
Into  the  hollow  seas  the  fierce  rain  rushed. 

As  if  its  ev’ry  drop  were  hot  with  wrath; 


200  Fragments  from  an  Epic  Poem. 


And,  like  a thousand  serpents  intercoiled, 

The  lightnings  glared  and  hissed,  and  hissed  and  glared!; 
And  all  the  horror  shrank  in  horror  back 
Before  the  maddest  peals  that  ever  leaped 
Out  from  the  thunder’s  throat. 

Within  the  dark 
We  silent  saL  No  rain  fell  on  the  rock. 

Nor  in  on  land,  nor  shore;  only  on  sea 
The  upper  and  the  lower  waters  met 
In  wild  delirium,  like  a thousand  hearts 
Par  parted — parted  long — which  meet  to  break, 

Which  rush  into  each  other’s  arms  and  break 
In  terror  and  in  tempests  wild  of  tears. 

No  rain  fell  on  the  rock;  but  flakes  of  foam 
Swept  cold  against  our  faces,  where  we  sat 
Between  the  hush  and  howling  of  the  winds. 

Between  the  swells  and  sinkings  of  the  waves. 

Between  the  stormy  sea  and  stilly  shore, 

Between  the  rushings  of  the  maddened  rains, 

Between  the  dark  beneath  and  dark  above. 

We  sat  within  the  dread  heart  of  the  night 
One,  pale  with  terror;  one,  as  calm  and  still 
And  stern  and  moveless  as  the  lone,  low  rock. 


LAKE  COMO. 


Wii^TER  on  the  mountains. 
Summer  on  the  shore. 

The  robes  of  cun-gleams  woven. 
The  lakers  blue  wavelets  wore. 


Cold,  white,  against  the  heavens. 
Flashed  winter’s  crown  of  snow. 
And  the  blossoms  of  the  spring-tide 
Waved  brightly  far  below. 

The  mountain’s  head  was  dreary, 

The  cold  and  cloud  were  there. 

But  the  mountain’s  feet  were  sandaled 
With  flowers  of  beauty  rare. 


And  winding  thro’  the  mountains 
The  lake’s  calm  wavelets  rolled. 
And  a cloudless  sun  was  gilding 
Their  ripples  with  its  gold, 

(201) 


202 


Lake  Como. 


Adown  the  lake  we  glided 
Thro’  all  the  sunlit  day; 

The  cold  snows  gleamed  above  us. 
But  fair  flowers  fringed  our  way. 

% 

The  snows  crept  down  the  mountain. 
The  flowers  crept  up  the  slope, 

Till  they  seemed  to  meet  and  mingle, 
Like  human  fear  and  hope. 


But  the  same  rich,  golden  sunlight 
Fell  on  the  flowers  and  snow. 
Like  the  smile  of  God  that  flashes 
On  hearts  in  joy  or  woe. 


And  on  the  lake’s  low  margin 
The  trees  wore  stoles  of  green. 
While  here  and  there,  amid  them, 
A convent  cross  was  seen. 


Anon  a ruined  castle, 

Moss-mantled,  loomed  in  view. 
And  cast  its  solemn  shadow 
Across  the  water’s  blue. 


Lake  Como. 


203 


And  chapel,  cot,  and  villa, 

Met  here  and  there  our  gaze. 
And  many  a crumbling  tower 
That  told  of  other  days. 


And  scattered  o’er  the  waters 
The  fishing  boats  lay  still. 
And  sound  of  song  so  softly 
Came  echoed  from  the  hill. 


At  times  the  mountain’s  shadow 
Fell  dark  across  the  scene. 
And  veiled  with  veil  of  purple 
The  wavelets’  silver  sheen. 


But  for  a moment  only; 

The  lake  would  wind,  and  lo! 
The  waves  would  near  the  glory 
Of  the  sunlight’s  brightest  glow. 


At  times  there  fell  a silence 
Unbroken  by  a tone. 

As  if  no  sound  of  voices 
Had  ever  there  been  known. 


204 


Lake  Como. 


Through  strange  and  lonely  places 
We  glided  thus  for  hours; 

We  saw  no  other  faces 
But  the  faces  of  the  flowers* 


The  shores  were  sad  and  lonely 
As  hearts  without  a love. 
While  darker  and  more  dreary 
The  mountains  rose  above. 


But  sudden  round  a headland 
The  lake  would  sweep  again, 
And  voices  from  a village 
Would  meet  us  with  their  strain. 


Thus  all  the  day  we  glided. 
Until  the  Vesper  bell 
Gave  to  the  day,  at  sunset, 
Its  sweet  and  soft  farewelL 


Then  back  again  we  glided 
Upon  our  homeward  way. 

When  twilight  wrapped  the  waters 
And  the  mountains  with  its  gray. 


Lake  Como, 


20n 


But  brief  the  reign  of  twilight. 
The  night  came  quickly  on; 

The  dark  brow  o’er  the  mountains. 
Star-wreathed,  brightly  shone. 


And  down  thro’  all  the  shadows 
The  star-gleams  softly  crept. 
And  kissed,  with  lips  all-shining. 
The  wavelets  ere  they  slept. 


The  lake  lay  in  a slumber. 

The  shadows  for  its  screen. 
While  silence  waved  her  sceptre 
Above  the  sleeping  scene. 


The  spirit  of  the  darkness 

Moved,  ghost-like,  everywhere; 
Wherever  starlight  glimmered. 
Its  shadow,  sure,  fell  there. 


The  lone  place  grew  more  lonely. 
And  all  along  our  way 
The  mysteries  of  the  night-tim® 
Held  undisputed  sway. 


206 


Lake  Como. 


Thro’  silence  and  thro’  darkness 
We  glided  down  the  tide 
That  wound  around  the  mountains 
That  rose  on  either  side. 


No  eyes  would  close  in  slumber 
Within  our  little  bark; 

What  charmed  us  so  in  daylight 
So  awed  us  in  the  dark. 


Upon  the  deck  we  lingered, 

A whisper  scarce  was  heard; 

When  hearts  are  stirred  profoundest, 
Lips  are  without  a word. 


“Let’s  say  the  Chaplet,”  softly 
A voice  beside  me  spake. 

“Christ  walked  once  in  the  darkness 
Across  an  Eastern  lake, 


“And  to-night  we  know  the  secret 
That  will  charm  Him  to  our  side: 
If  we  call  upon  His  Mother, 

He  will  meet  us  on  the  tide.” 


Lake  Como. 


207 


So  we  said  the  beads  together, 
Up  and  down  the  little  bark; 
And  I believe  that  Jesus  met  us, 
With  His  Mother,  in  the  dark. 


And  our  prayers  were  scarcely  ended 
When,  on  mountain-top  afar. 

We  beheld  the  morning  meeting 
With  the  night’s  last  fading  star. 


And  I left  the  lake;  but  never 
Shall  the  years  to  come  efface 
From  my  heart  the  dream  and  visk/a 
Of  that  strange  and  lonely  placSc 


Febsuart  1, 1873. 


**PSACEt  BE  still: 


Sometimes  the  Saviour  sleeps,  and  it  is  dark; 

Por,  oh!  His  eyes  are  this  world’s  only  light, 
And  when  they  close  wild  waves  rush  on  His  bark. 
And  toss  it  through  the  dead  hours  of  the  night. 


So  He  slept  once  upon  an  Eastern  lake, 

In  Peter’s  bark,  while  wild  waves  raved  at  will; 
A cry  smote  on  Him,  and  when  He  did  wake, 

He  softly  whispered,  and  the  sea  grew  still. 


It  is  a mystery:  but  He  seems  to  sleep 
As  erst  he  slept  in  Peter’s  waved-rocked  bark; 

A storm  is  sweeping  all  across  the  deep. 

While  Pius  prays,  like  Peter,  in  the  dark. 

The  sky  is  darkened,  and  the  shore  is  far. 

The  tempest’s  strength  grows  fiercer  every  hour: 
Upon  the  howling  deep  there  shines  no  star. 

Why  sleeps  He  still?  Why  does  He  hide  His  power? 


Peace!  Be  StiUP 


20& 


Fear  not!  a holy  hand  is  on  the  helm 
That  guides  the  bark  thro’  all  the  tempest’s  wrath; 
Quail  not!  the  wildest  waves  can  never  whelm 
The  ship  of  faith  upon  its  homeward  path. 


The  Master  sleeps — His  pilot  guards  the  bark; 

He  soon  will  wake,  and  at  His  mighty  will 
The  light  will  shine  where  all  before  was  dark — 

The  wild  waves  still  remember:  Peace!  be  still.’^ 


Rome,  1873. 


GOOD  FRIDAY. 


O Heakt  of  Three-in-the  evening, 
You  nestled  the  thorn-crowned  head 

He  leaned  on  you  in  His  sorrow, 

And  rested  on  you  when  dead. 

Ah!  Holy  Three-in-the  evening 
He  gave  you  His  richest  dower; 

He  met  you  afar  on  Calvary, 

And  made  you  ‘‘His  own  last  hour/^ 

O Brow  of  Three-in-the  evening, 

Thou  wearest  a crimson  crown; 

Thou  art  Priest  of  the  hours  forever. 
And  thy  voice,  as  thou  goest  down 

The  cycles  of  time,  still  murmurs 
The  story  of  love  each  day: 

“ I held  in  death  the  Eternal, 

In  the  long  and  the  far-away.’’ 

0 Heart  of  Three-in-the  evening. 

Mine  heats  with  thine  to-day; 

Thou  tellest  the  olden  story, 

I kneel — and  I weep  and  pray. 

Boulogne,  sur  mer. 

mo) 


For  many  and  many  a time  in  grief 
My  weary  lingers  wandered  ^round 
Thy  circled  chain,  and  always  fonnd 
In  some  Hail  Mary  sweet  relief. 


MV  BEADS. 


Sweet,  blessed  beads!  I would  not  part 
With  one  of  you  for  richest  gem 
That  gleams  in  kingly  diadem; 

Ye  know  the  history  of  my  heart. 

For  I have  told  you  every  grief 

In  all  the  days  of  twenty  years. 

And  I have  moistened  you  with  tears; 

And  in  your  decades  found  relief. 

Ah!  time  has  fled,  and  friends  have  failed 
And  joys  have  died;  but  in  my  needs 
Ye  were  my  friends,  my  blessed  beads! 

And  ye  consoled  me  when  I wailed. 

For  many  and  many  a time,  in  grief. 

My  weary  Angers  wandered  round 
Thy  circled  chain,  and  always  found 

In  some  Hail  Mary  sweet  relief. 


212 


My  Beads. 


How  many  a story  you  might  tell 
Of  inner  life,  to  all  unknown; 

I trusted  you  and  you  alone. 

But  ahl  ye  keep  my  secrets  well. 

Ye  ^re  the  only  chain  I wear — 

A sign  that  I am  but  the  slave. 

In  life,  in  death,  beyond  the  grave^ 
U1  /esus  and  His  Mother  fair. 


AT  NIGHT. 


Dreaby!  weary  I 
Weary!  dreary! 

Sighs  my  soul  this  lonely  night 
Farewell  gladness! 
Welcome  sadness! 
Vanished  are  my  visions  bright 

Stars  are  shining  I 
Winds  are  piningl 
In  the  sky  and  o’er  the  se^ 
Shine  forever 
Stars!  but  never 
Can  the  starlight  gladden  me. 

Stars!  you  nightly 
Sparkle  brightly. 
Scattered  o’er  your  azure  dome; 
While  earth’s  turning. 
There  you’re  burning. 
Beacons  of  a better  home. 


(21% 


214 


At  Night. 


Stars  I you  brighten 
And  you  lighten 
Many  a heart-grief  here  below; 

But  your  gleaming 
And  your  beaming 
Cannot  chase  away  my  woe. 

Stars!  you’re  shining, 

I am  pining — 

1 am  dark,  but  you  are  bright; 
Hanging  o’er  me 
And  before  me 
Is  a night  you  cannot  light. 

Night  of  sorrow. 

Whose  to-morrow 
1 may  never,  never  see. 

Till  upon  me 
And  around  me 
Dawns  a bright  eternity. 

Winds  I you’re  sighing^ 

And  you’re  crying, 

Like  a mourner  o’er  a tomb; 

Whither  go  ye, 

Whither  blow  ye, 

Wailing  through  the  midnight  gloom? 


At  Night. 


215 


Chanting  lowly, 

Softly,  lowly, 

Like  the  voice  of  one  in  woe; 
Winds  so  lonely. 

Why  thus  moan  ye  ? 

Say,  what  makes  you  sorrow  so? 

Are  you  grieving 
For  your  leaving 

^ Scenes  where  all  is  fair  and  gay? 
For  the  flowers. 

In  their  bowers. 

You  have  met  with  on  your  way? 

For  fond  faces, 

For^dear  places. 

That  youVe  seen  as  on  you  swept? 
Are  you  sighing, 

Are  you  crying. 

O’er  the  memories  they  have  left? 

Earth  is  sleeping 
While  you’re  sweeping 
Through  night’s  solemn  silence  by; 
On  forever. 

Pausing  never — 

How  I love  to  hear  you  sight 


216 


At  Night. 


Men  are  dreaming. 

Stars  are  gleaming 
In  the  far-off  heaven’s  blue; 
Bosom  aching, 

Musing,  waking, 

Midnight  winds,  I sigh  with  you! 


NOCTURNE. 


Betimes,  I seem  to  see  in  dreams 
What  when  awake  I may  not  see; 

Can  night  he  God’s  more  than  the  day? 

Do  stars,  not  suns,  best  light  His  way? 

Who  knoweth?  Blended  lights  and  shades 
Arch  aisles  down  which  He  walks  to  me. 

I hear  him  coming  in  the  night 
Afar,  and  yet  I know  not  how; 

His  steps  make  music  low  and  sweet; 
Sometimes  the  nails  are  in  His  feet; 

Does  darkness  give  God  better  light 
Than  day,  to  find  a weary  brow? 

Does  darkness  give  man  brighter  rays 
To  find  the  God,  in  sunshine  lost? 

Must  shadows  wrap  the  trysting-place 
Where  God  meets  hearts  with  gentlest  grace? 
Who  knoweth  it?  God  hath  His  ways 
For  every  soul  here  sorrow-tossed. 

^217) 


218 


Nocturne. 


The  hours  of  day  are  like  the  waves 
That  fret  against  the  shores  of  sin: 

They  touch  the  human  everywhere, 

The  Bright-Divine  fades  in  their  glare; 

And  God’s  sweet  voice  the  spirit  craves 
Is  heard  too  faintly  in  the  din. 

When  all  the  senses  are  awake, 

The  mortal  presses  overmuch 
Upon  the  great  immortal  part — 

And  God  seems  further  from  the  heart. 

Must  souls,  like  skies,  when  day-dawns  break. 
Lose  star  by  star  at  sunlight’s  touch. 

But  when  the  sun  kneels  in  the  west,  ‘ 

And  grandly  sinks  as  great  hearts  sink; 
And  in  his  sinking  flings  adown 
Bright  blessings  from  his  fading  crown. 

The  stars  begin  their  song  of  rest. 

And  shadows  make  the  thoughtless  think. 

The  human  seems  to  fade  away; 

And  down  the  starred  and  shadowed  skies 
The  heavenly  comes — as  memories  come 
Of  home  to  hearts  afar  from  home; 

And  thro’  the  darkness  after  day 
Many  a winged  angel  flies. 


Nocturne, 


219 


And  somehow,  tho’  the  eyes  see  less. 

Our  spirits  seem  to  see  the  more; 

When  we  look  thro’  night’s  shadow-bars 
The  soul  sees  more  than  shining  stars. 
Yea — sees  the  very  loveliness 
That  rests  upon  the  ‘^Golden  Shore.^ 

Strange  reveries  steal  o’er  us  then, 

Like  keyless  chords  of  instruments. 

With  music’s  soul  without  the  notes; 

And  subtle,  sad,  and  sweet  there  floats 
A melody  not  made  by  men, 

Nor  ever  heard  by  outer  sense. 

And  ^^what  has  been,”  and  ^^what  will  be,” 
And  ^^what  is  not,”  but  might  have  been,” 
The  dim  ^^to  be,”  the  ^^mournful  gone,” 
The  little  things  life  rested  on 
In  ^^Long-ago’s,”  give  tone,' not  key. 

To  reveries  beyond  our  ken. 


SUNLESS  DATS. 


They  come  to  ev^ry  life — sad,  sunless  days. 

With  not  a light  all  o’er  their  clouded  skies; 

And  thro’  the  dark  we  grope  along  our  ways 
With  hearts  fear-filled,  and  lips  low -breathing  sighs. 

What  is  the  dark?  Why  cometh  it?  and  whence? 

Why  does  it  banish  all  the  bright  away? 

How  does  it  weave  a' spell  o’er  soul  and  sense? 

Why  falls  the  shadow  where’er  gleams  the  ray? 

Hast  felt  it?  I have  felt  it,  and  I know 
How  oft  and  suddenly  the  shadows  roll 
From  out  the  depths  of  some  dim  realm  of  woe. 

To  wrap  their  darkness  round  the  human  soul. 

Those  days  are  darker  than  the  very  night; 

For  nights  have  stars,  and  sleep,  and  happy  dreams; 
But  tliese  days  bring  unto  the  spirit-sight 
The  mysteries  of  gloom,  until  it  seems 

The  light  is  gone  forever,  and  the  dark 
Hangs  like  a pall  of  death  above  the  soul, 

Which  rocks  amid  the  gloom  like  storm-swept  bark. 
And  sinks  beneath  a sea  where  tempests  roll. 

Winter  on  the  Atlantic. 

C220; 


A REVERIE. 


Did  I dream  of  a song?  or  sing  in  a dream? 

Why  ask  when  the  night  only  knoweth? 

The  night — and  the  angel  of  sleep! 

But  ever  since  then  a music  deep, 

Like  a stream  thro^  a shadow-land,  floweth 
Under  each  thought  of  my  spirit  that  groweth 
Into  the  blossom  and  bloom  of  speech — 

Under  each  fancy  that  cometh  and  goeth— 
Wayward,  as  waves  when  evening  breeze  bloweth 
Out  of  the  sunset  and  into  the  beach. 

And  is  it  a wonder  I wept  to-day? 

For  I mused  and  thought,  but  I cannot  say  ^ 
If  I dreamed  of  a song,  or  sang  in  a dream. 

In  the  silence  of  sleep,  and  the  noon  of  night; 
And  now — even  now — ’neath  the  words  I write. 
The  flush  of  the  dream  or  the  flow  of  the  song — ■ 
I cannot  tell  which — moves  strangely  along. 

But  why  write  more?  I am  puzzled  sore: 

Did  I dream  of  a song?  or  sing  in  a dream? 

Ah!  hush,  heart!  hush!  ^tis  of  no  avail; 

The  words  of  earth  are  a darksome  veil. 

The  poet  weaves  it  with  artful  grace; 

Lifts  it  off  from  his  thoughts  at  times. 

Lets  it  rustle  along  his  rhymes. 

But  gathers  it  close,  covering  the  face 
Of  ev’ry  thought  that  must  not  part 
From  out  the  keeping  of  his  heart. 


BT.  MARTAS. 


Back  to  where  the  roses  rest 
Round  a shrine  of  holy  name, 

(Yes — they  knew  me  when  I came) 
More  of  peace  and  less  of  fame 
Suit  my  restless  heart  the  best 


Back  to  where  long  quiets  brood. 
Where  the  calm  is  never  stirred 
By  the  harshness  of  a word, 

But  instead  the  singing  bird 
Sweetens  all  my  solitude. 


With  the  birds  and  with  the  flowers 
Songs  and  silences  unite. 

From  the  morning  unto  night; 

And  somehow  a clearer  light 
Shines  along  the  quiet  hours. 


(222) 


MapvyV  Church,  IVIobile— Father  Ryan’s  Late  Residence  Adjoining. 


8L  Mary^s. 


223 


God  comes  closer  to  me  here — 
Back  of  ev’ry  rose  leaf  there 
He  is  hiding — and  the  air 
Thrills  with  calls  to  holy  prayer; 
Earth  grows  far,  and  heaven  near. 


Every  single  flower  is  fraught 
With  the  very  sweetest  dreams. 
Under  clouds  or  under  gleams 
Changeful  ever — yet  meseems 

On  each  leaf  1 read  God^s  thought. 


Still,  at  times,  as  place  of  death. 

Not  a sound  to  vex  the  ear. 

Yet  withal  it  is  not  drear; 

Better  for  the  heart  to  hear. 

Far  from  men — God^s  gentle  breath. 


Where  men  clash,  God  always  clings: 
When  the  human  passes  by. 

Like  a cloud  from  Summer  sky, 

God  so  gently  draweth  nigli. 

And  the  brightest  blessings  brings. 


224 


Mary^s. 


List!  e’en  now  a wild  bird  sings, 
And  the  roses  seem  to  hear 
Every  note  that  thrills  my  ear, 
Rising  to  the  heavens  clear. 

And  my  soul  soars  on  its  wings 


Up  into  the  silent  skies 
Where  the  sunbeams  veil  the  star. 
Up — ^beyond  the  clouds  afar. 

Where  no  discords  ever  mar. 

Where  rests  peace  that  never  dies. 


So  I live  within  the  calm. 
And  the  birds  and  roses  know 
That  the  days  that  come  and  go 
Are  as  peaceful  as  the  flow 
Of  a prayer  beneath  a psalm. 


DE  PR0FUNDI8. 


'Ah  ! days  so  dark  with  death’s  eclipse ! 
Woe  are  we!  woe  are  we! 

And  the  nights  are  ages  long ! 

From  breaking  heartS;,  thro’  pallid  lips 
0 my  God ! woe  are  we ! 
Trembleth  the  mourners’  song; 

A blight  is  falling  on  the  fair^ 
And  hope  is  dying  in  despair. 

And  terror  walketh  everywhere. 


All  the  hours  are  full  of  tears — 

0 my  God ! woe  are  we ! 

Grief  keeps  watch  in  brightest  eyes — 
Every  heart  is  strung  with  fears, 

Woe  are  we ! woe  are  we ! 

All  the  light  hath  left  the  skies. 

And  the  living  awe-struck  crowds 
See  above  them  only  clouds. 

And  around  them  only  shrouds. 

(225) 


226 


De  Profundis. 


Ah ! the  terrible  farewells ! 

Woe  are  they ! woe  are  they ! 
When  last  words  sink  into  moans, 
W^hile  lifers  trembling  vesper  bells — 
0 my  God ! woe  are  we ! 

Eing  the  awful  undertones ! 

Not  a sun  in  any  day ! 

In  the  night-time  not  a ray. 

And  the  dying  pass  away ! 


Dark ! so  dark ! above — ^below — 

0 my  God ! woe  are  we  ! 
Cowereth  every  human  life. 

Wild  the  wailing;  to  and  fro! 

Woe  are  all ! woe  are  we! 

Death  is  victor  in  the  strife : 

In  the  hut  and  in  the  hall 
He  is  writing  on  the  wall 
Dooms  for  many — fears  for  all. 


Thro^  the  cities  burns  a breath. 

Woe  are  they!  woe  are  we! 

Hot  with  dread  and  deadly  wrath; 
Life  and  love  lock  arms  in  death. 
Woe  are  they ! woe  are  all ! 


De  Profundis. 


227 


Victims  strew  the  spectre^s  path; 
Shy-eyed  children  softly  creep 
Where  their  mothers  wail  and  weep — 
In  the  grave  their  fathers  sleep. 


Mothers  waft  their  prayers  on  high^ 

0 my  God ! woe  are  we ! 

With  their  dead  child  on  their  breast. 
And  the  altars  ask  the  sky — 

0 my  Christ ! woe  are  we ! 

^^Give  the  dead,  0 Father,  rest! 

Spare  thy  people ! mercy ! spare  1^^ 
Answer  will  not  come  to  prayer — 
Horror  moveth  everywhere. 


And  the  temples  miss  the  priest — 

0 my  God!  woe  are  we! 

And  the  cradle  mourns  the  child. 
Husband  at  your  bridal  feast — 

Woe  are  you ! woe  are  you ! 

Think  how  those  poor  dead  eyes  smiled ; 
They  will  never  smile  again — 
Every  tie  is  cut  in  twain. 

All  the  strength  of  love  is  vain. 


228 


De  Profundis. 


Weep?  but  tears  are  weak  as  foam — 
Woe  are  ye!  woe  are  we! 

They  but  break  upon  the  shore 
Winding  between  here  and  home— 
Woe  are  ye!  woe  are  we! 
Wailing  never!  nevermore! 

Ah!  the  dead!  they  are  so  lone. 
Just  a grave,  and  just  a stone, 
And  the  memory  of  a moan. 


Pray!  yes,  pray!  for  God  is  sweet— 

0 my  God ! woe  are  we ! 

Tears  will  trickle  into  prayers 
When  we  kneel  down  at  His  feet — 
Woe  are  we!  woe  are  we! 

With  our  crosses  and  our  cares. 

He  will  calm  the  tortured  breast. 
He  will  give  the  troubled  rest — 
And  the  dead  He  watcheth  best. 


WHEm 


Some  day  in  Spring, 

When  earth  is  fair  and  glad. 
And  sweet  birds  sing, 

And  fewest  hearts  are  sad — 
Shall  I die  then  ? 

Ah!  me,  no  matter  when; 

I know  it  will  be  sweet 

To  leave  the  homes  of  men 
And  rest  beneath  the  sod. 

To  kneel  and  kiss  Thy  feet 
In  Thy  home,  0 my  God. 


Some  Summer  morn 

Of  splendors  and  of  songs* 

When  roses  hide  the  thorn 
And  smile — the  spirit’s  wrongs— 
Shall  I die  then  ? 

Ahl  me,  no  matter  when; 

(229) 


230 


When? 


I know  I will  rejoice 

To  leave  the  haunts  of  men 
And  lie  beneath  the  sod. 

To  hear  Thy  tender  voice 
In  Thy  home,  0 my  God. 


Some  Autumn  eve. 

When  chill  clouds  drape  the  sky. 
When  bright  things  grieve 
Because  all  fair  things  die — 
Shall  I die  then  ? 

Ah  I me,  no  matter  when; 

I know  I shall  be  glad, 

Away  from  the  homes  of  men, 
Adown  beneath  the  sod. 

My  heart  will  not  be  sad 
In  Thy  home,  0 my  God. 


Some  Wintry  day. 

When  all  skies  wear  a gloom. 
And  beauteous  May 
Sleeps  in  December’s  tomb, 
Shall  I die  then? 

Ah  I me,  no  matter  when; 


When? 


231 


My  soul  shall  throb  with  joy 
To  leave  the  haunts  of  men 
And  sleep  beneath  the  sod. 
Ah!  there  is  no  alloy 
In  Thy  joys,  0 my  God. 


Haste,  death!  be  fleet; 

I know  it  will  be  sweet 
To  rest  beneath  the  sod. 
To  kneel  and  kiss  Thy  feet 
In  heaven,  0 my  God. 


THE  CONQUERED  BANNER. 


Furl  that  Banner,  for  ’tis  weary; 
Eonnd  its  staff  ’tis  drooping  dreary; 

Furl  it,  fold  it,  it  is  best; 

For  there’s  not  a man  to  wave  it, 

And  there’s  not  a sword  to  save  it. 
And  there’s  not  one  left  to  lave  it 
In  the  blood  which  heroes  gave  it; 
And  its  foes  now  scorn  and  brave  it ; 
Furl  it,  hide  it — let  it  rest  I 

Take  that  Banner  down!  ’tis  tattered; 
Broken  is  its  staff  and  shattered; 

And  the  valiant  hosts  are  scattered 
Over  whom  it  floated  high. 

Oh!  ’tis  hard  for  us  to  fold  it; 

Hard  to  think  there’s  none  to  hold  it; 
Hard  that  those  who  once  unrolled  it 
Now  must  furl  it  with  a sigh. 

(832^ 


The  Conquered  BanTier. 


233 


Furl  that  Banner!  furl  it  sadly! 

Once  ten  thousands  hailed  it  gladly. 
And  ten  thousands  wildly,  madly, 

Swore  it  should  forever  wave; 

Swore  that  foeman’s  sword  should  never 
Hearts  like  theirs  entwined  dissever. 

Till  that  flag  should  float  forever 

O’er  their  freedom  or  their  grave! 

Furl  it!  for  the  hands  that  grasped  it, 
And  the  hearts  that  fondly  clasped  it. 
Cold  and  dead  are  lying  low; 

And  that  Banner — it  is  trailing! 

While  around  it  sounds  the  wailing 
Of  its  people  in  their  woe. 

For,  though  conquered,  they  adore  it! 
Love  the  cold,  dead  hands  that  bore  it! 
Weep  for  those  who  fell  before  it! 
Pardon  those  who  trailed  and  tore  it! 
But,  oh!  wildly  they  deplore  it. 

Now  who  furl  and  fold  it  so. 

Furl  that  Banner!  True,  ’tis  gory. 

Yet  ’tis  wreathed  around  with  glory, 
And  ’twill  live  in  song  and  story, 
Though  its  folds  are  in  the  dust: 


234 


The  Conquered  Banner. 


For  its  fame  on  brightest  pages, 

Penned  by  poets  and  by  sages. 

Shall  go  sounding  down  the  ages — 

Furl  its  folds  though  now  we  must. 

Furl  that  Banner,  softly,  slowly! 

Treat  it  gently — it  is  holy — 

For  it  droops  above  the  dead. 

Touch  it  not — unfold  it  never. 

Let  it  droop  there,  furled  forever. 

For  its  people’s  hopes  are  dead! 


A CHRISTMAS  CHANT. 


They  ask  me  to  sing  them  a Christmas  song 
That  with  musical  mirth  shall  ring; 

How  know  I that  the  world’s  great  throng 
Will  care  for  the  words  I sing. 


Let  the  young  and  the  gay  chant  the  Christmas  lay. 
Their  voices  and  hearts  are  glad ; 

But  I — I am  old,  and  my  locks  are  gray. 

And  they  tell  me  my  voice  is  sad. 


Ah!  once  I could  sing,  when  my  heart  beat  warm 
With  hopes,  bright  as  life’s  first  Spring; 

But  the  Spring  hath  fled,  and  the  golden  charm 
Hath  gone  from  the  songs  I sing. 


I have  lost  the  spell  that  my  verse  could  weave 
O’er  the  souls  of  the  old  and  young. 

And  never  again — how  it  makes  me  grieve— 
Shall  I sing  as  once  I sung. 


(235^ 


236 


A Christmas  Chard. 


Why  ask  a song?  ah!  perchance  you  believe. 
Since  my  days  are  so  nearly  past, 

That  the  song  you’ll  hear  on  this  Christmas  eve 
Is  the  old  man’s  best  and  last. 


Do  you  want  the  jingle  of  rhythm  and  rhyme? 

Art’s  sweet  but  meaningless  notes? 

Or  the  music  of  thought,  that,  like  the  chime 
Of  a grand  Cathedral,  floats 


Out  of  each  word,  and  along  each  line, 
Into  the  spirit’s  ear, 

Lifting  it  up  and  making  it  pine 
For  a something  far  from  here. 


Bearing  the  wings  of  the  soul  aloft 
From  earth  and  its  shadows  dim; 
Soothing  the  breast  with  a sound  as  soft 
As  a dream,  or  a Seraph’s  hymn; 


Evoking  the  solemnest  hopes  and  fears 
From  our  being’s  higher  part; 
Dimming  the  eyes  with  radiant  tears 
That  flow  from  a spell-bound  heart? 


A Christmas  ChanL 


237 


Do  they  want  a song  that  is  only  a song. 

With  no  mystical  meanings  rife? 

Or  a music  that  solemnly  moves  along — 

The  undertone  of  a lifel 

Well,  then,  Pll  sing,  though  I know  no  art, 

Nor  the  poePs  rhymes  nor  rules — 

A melody  moves  through  my  aged  heart 
Not  learned  from  the  books  or  schools: 

A music  I learned  in  the  days  long  gone— 

I cannot  tell  where  or  how — 

But  no  matter  where,  it  still  sounds  on 
Back  of  this  wrinkled  brow. 

And  down  in  my  heart  I hear  it  still. 

Like  the  echoes  of  far-off  bells; 

Like  the  dreamy  sound  of  a Summer  rill 
Flowing  through  fairy  dells. 

But  what  shall  I sing  for  the  world’s  gay  throng. 

And  what  the  words  of  the  old  man’s  song? 

The  world,  they  tell  me,  is  so  giddy  grown 
That  thought  is  rare; 

And  thoughtless  minds  and  shallow  hearts  alone 
Hold  empire  there; 


238 


A Christmas  Chard. 


That  fools  have  prestige,  place  and  power  and  fame 
Can  it  be  true 

That  wisdom  is  a scorn,  a hissing  shame, 

And  wise  are  few? 


They  tell  me,  too,  that  is  venal,  vain. 
With  high  and  low; 

That  truth  and  honor  are  the  slaves  of  gain; 
Can  it  be  so? 


That  lofty  principle  hath  long  been  dead 
And  in  a shroud; 

That  virtue  walks  ashamed,  with  downcast  head. 
Amid  the  crowd. 


They  tell  me,  too,  that  few  they  are  who  own 
God’s  law  and  love; 

That  thousands,  living  for  this  earth  alone^ 
Look  not  above; 


That  daily,  hourly,  from  the  bad  to  worse. 
Men  tread  the  path, 

Blaspheming  God,  and  careless  of  the  curse 
Of  His  dread  wrath. 


A Christmas  Charu. 


239 


And  must  I sing  for  slaves  of  sordid  gain. 

Or  to  the  few 

Shall  I not  dedicate  this  Christmas  strain 
Who  still  are  true? 

Nol  not  for  the  false  shall  I strike  the  strings 
Of  the  lyre  that  was  mute  so  long; 

If  I sing  at  all,  the  gray  bard  sings 
For  the  few  and  the  true  his  song. 


And  ah  I there  is  many  a changeful  mood 
That  over  my  spirit  steals; 

Beneath  their  spell,  and  in  verses  rude. 
Whatever  he  dreams  or  feels. 


Whatever  the  fancies  this  Christmas  eve 
Are  haunting  the  lonely  man. 

Whether  they  gladden,  or  whether  they  grieve. 
He’ll  sing  them  as  best  he  can. 


Though  some  of  the  strings  of  his  lyre  are  broke 
This  holiest  night  of  the  year. 

Who  knows  how  its  melody  may  wake 
A Christmas  smile  or  a tear? 


240 


A Christmas  Chard. 


So  on  with  the  mystic  song. 

With  its  meaning  manifold — 

Two  tones  in  every  word, 

Two  thoughts  in  every  tone; 

In  the  measured  words  that  move  along 
One  meaning  shall  be  heard. 

One  thought  to  all  be  told; 

But  under  it  all,  to  be  alone — 

And  under  it  all,  to  all  unknown — 

As  safe  as  under  a coffin-lid, 
Deep  meanings  shall  be  hid. 

Find  them  out  who  can! 

The  thoughts  concealed  and  unrevealed 
In  the  song  of  the  lonely  man. 

^ id 

Fm  sitting  alone  in  my  silent  room 
This  long  December  night, 

Watching  the  fire-flame  fill  the  gloom 
With  many  a picture  bright. 

Ah!  how  the  fire  can  paint! 

Its  magic  skill  how  strange! 

How  every  spark 
On  the  canvass  dark 
Draws  figures  and  forms  so  quaint! 
And  how  the  picture  change! 

One  moment  how  they  smile! 


A Christmas  Chant. 


241 


And  in  less  than  a little  while. 
In  the  twinkling  of  an  eye, 

Like  the  gleam  of  a Summer  sky. 
The  beaming  smiles  all  die. 


From  gay  to  grave — from  grave  to  gay — 
The  faces  change  in  the  shadows  grey; 
And  just  as  I wonder  who  are  they. 

Over  them  all, 

Like  a funeral  pall. 

The  folds  of  the  shadows  droop  and  fall, 
And  the  charm  is  gone. 

And  every  one 

Of  the  pictures  fade  away. 


Ah  I the  fire  within  my  grate 

Hath  more  than  Eaphael’s  power, 

Is  more  than  Eaphael’s  peer; 

It  paints  for  me  in  a little  hour 
More  than  he  in  a year; 

And  the  pictures  hanging  ^round  me  here 
This  holy  Christmas  eve 
No  artist’s  pencil  could  create— 

No  painter’s  art  conceive; 


242 


A Christmas  ChcvnJU 


Ah  I those  cheerful  faces. 

Wearing  youthful  gracesl 
1 gaze  on  them  until  1 seem 
Half  awake  and  half  in  dream. 

There  are  brows  without  a mark, 

Features  bright  without  a shade; 
There  are  eyes  without  a tear; 

There  are  lips  unused  to  sigh. 

Ah  I never  mind — ^you  soon  shall  die! 

All  those  faces  soon  shall  fade, 

Fade  into  the  dreary  dark 
Like  their  pictures  hanging  here. 

— — Lol  those  tearful  faces. 

Bearing  age’s  traces! 

I gaze  on  them,  and  they  on  me^ 

Until  I feel  a sorrow  steal 
Through  my  heart  so  drearily; 

There  are  faces  furrowed  deep; 

There  are  eyes  that  used  to  weep; 

There  are  brows  beneath  a cloud; 
There  are  hearts  that  want  to  sleep; 
Never  mind!  the  shadows  creep 
From  the  death-land;  and  a shroud, 
Tenderly  as  mother’s  arm. 

Soon  shall  shield  the  old  from  harm* 
Soon  shall  wrap  its  robe  of  rest 
Bound  each  sorrow-haunted  breast- 


A Christmas  Chant. 


243 


Ah  I that  face  of  mother^s, 

Sister’s,  too,  and  brother’s— 

And  so  many  others. 

Dear  is  every  name — 

And  Ethel  I Thou  art  there. 

With  thy  child-face  sweet  and  faiv^ 

And  thy  heart  so  bright 
In  its  shroud  so  white; 

Just  as  I saw  you  last 
In  the  golden,  happy  past> 

And  you  seem  to  wear 
Upon  your  hair — 

JTour  waving,  golden  hair  «— 

The  smile  of  the  setting  sun. 

Ahl  me,  how  years  will  run! 

But  all  the  years  cannot  efface 
Your  purest  name,  your  sweetest  grao^ 
From  the  heart  that  still  is  true 
Of  all  the  world  to  you; 

The  other  faces  shine, 

But  none  so  fair  as  thine; 

And  wherever  they  are  to-night,  I know 
They  look  the  very  same 
As  in  their  pictures  hanging  her© 
This  night,  to  memory  dear. 

And  painted  by  the  flames, 

With  tombstones  in  the  background. 

And  shadows  for  their  frames. 


244 


A Christmas  Chant 


And  thus,  with  my  pictures  only. 

And  the  fancies  they  unweave. 

Alone,  and  yet  not  lonely, 

I keep  my  Christmas  eve. 

Fm  sitting  alone  in  my  pictured  room— 

But,  no  I they  have  vanished  all— 

Fm  watching  the  fire-glow  fade  into  gloom, 

Fm  watching  the  ashes  fall. 

And  far  away  back  of  the  cheerful  blaze 
The  beautiful  visions  of  by-gone  days 
Are  rising  before  my  raptured  gaze. 

Ahl  Christmas  fire,  so  bright  and  warm, 
Hast  thou  a wizard’s  magic  charm 
To  bring  those  far-off  scenes  so  near 
And  make  my  past  days  meet  me  here? 

Tell  me — ^tell  me — ^how  is  it? 

The  past  is  past,  and  here  I sit. 

And  there,  lol  there  before  me  rise. 

Beyond  yon  glowing  fiame. 

The  Summer  suns  of  childhood’s  skie^ 

Yes — yes — the  very  samel 
I saw  them  rise  long,  long  ago; 

I played  beneath  their  golden  glow; 

And  I remember  yet, 

I often  cried  with  strange  regret 
When  in  the  west  1 saw  them  set 


A Christmas  Chant. 


245 


And  there  they  are  again ; 

The  suns,  the  skies,  the  very  days 
Of  childhood,  just  beyond  that  blazel 
But,  ah!  such  visions  almost  craze 
The  old  man’s  puzzled  brain! 

I thought  the  past  was  past! 

But,  no!  it  cannot  be; 

’Tis  here  to-night  with  me! 

How  is  it,  then?  the  past  of  men 
Is  part  of  one  eternity — 

The  days  of  yore  we  so  deplore. 

They  are  not  dead — ^they  are  not  fled. 
They  live  and  live  for  evermore. 
And  thus  my  past  comes  back  to  me 
With  all  its  visions  fair. 

0 past!  could  I go  back  to  thee. 

And  live  forever  there! 

But,  no!  there’s  frost  upon  my  hairj 
My  feet  have  trod  a path  of  care; 
And  worn  and  wearied  here  I sit> 

I am  too  tired  to  go  to  it. 

And  thus  with  visions  only, 

And  the  fancies  they  unweav^ 
Alone,  and  yet  not  lonely, 

I keep  my  Christmas  eve. 


246 


A Christmas  Chard. 


I am  sitting  alone  in  my  fire-lit  room; 

But,  no!  the  fire  is  dying. 

And  the  weary-voiced  winds,  in  the  outer  gloom. 
Are  sad,  and  I hear  them  sighing. 

The  wind  hath  a voice  to  pine — 
Plaintive,  and  pensive,  and  low; 

Hath  it  a heart  like  mine  or  thine? 

Knoweth  it  weal  or  woe? 

How  it  wails,  in  a ghost-like  strain. 

Just  against  that  window  panel 
As  if  it  were  tired  of  its  long,  cold  fiight. 

And  wanted  to  rest  with  me  to-nighh 
Cease!  night-winds  cease! 

Why  should  you  be  sad? 

This  is  a night  of  joy  and  peace. 

And  heaven  and  earth  are  glad  I 
But  still  the  winds  voice  grieves! 

Perchance  o’er  the  fallen  leaves. 

Which,  in  their  Summer  bloom. 

Danced  to  the  music  of  bird  and  breeze. 

But,  torn  from  the  arms  of  their  parent  trees. 
Lie  now  in  their  wintry  tomb — * 

Mute  types  of  man’s  own  doom. 

And  thus  with  the  night  winds  only. 

And  the  fancies  they  unweave. 

Alone,  and  yet  not  lonely, 

I keep  my  Christmas  eve. 


A Christmas  Chant, 


247 


How  long  have  I been  dreaming  here? 

Or  have  I dreamed  at  all? 

My  fire  is  dead — my  pictures  fied — 
There’s  nothing  left  but  shadows  drear. 
Shadows  on  the  wall; 


Shifting,  flitting, 

Bound  me  sitting 
In  my  old  arm  chair— 

Rising,  sinking 
Round  me,  thinking. 

Till,  in  the  maze  of  many  a dream, 
Fm  not  myself;  and  I almost  seem 
Like  one  of  the  shadows  there. 
Well,  let  the  shadows  stayl 
I wonder  who  are  they? 

I cannot  say;  but  I almost  believe 
They  know  to-night  is  Christmas  ev^ 
And  to-morrow  Christmas  day. 


Ahl  there  s nothing  like  a Christmas  eve 
To  change  life’s  bitter  gall  to  sweet. 
And  change  the  sweet  to  gall  again; 

To  take  the  thorns  from  out  our  feet — 
The  thorns  and  all  their  dreary  pain. 
Only  to  put  them  back  again. 


248 


A Christmas  Chant. 


To  take  old  stings  from  out  our  heart — 

Old  stings  that  made  them  bleed  and  smart— 
Only  to  sharpen  them  the  more, 

And  press  them  back  to  the  heart’s  own  core. 


Ah  I no  eve  is  like  the  Christmas  eve  I 
Fears  and  hopes,  and  hopes  and  fears. 

Tears  and  smiles,  and  smiles  and  tears. 
Cheers  and  sighs,  and  sighs  and  cheers. 
Sweet  and  bitter,  bitter,  sweet. 

Bright  and  dark,  and  dark  and  bright. 
All  these  mingle,  all  these  meet. 

In  this  great  and  solemn  night. 


Ah  I there’s  nothing  like  a Christmas  eve 
To  melt,  with  kindly  glowing  heat. 
From  off  our  souls  the  snow  and  sleet, 
The  dreary  drift  of  wintry  years. 

Only  to  make  the  cold  winds  blow. 
Only  to  make  a colder  snow; 

And  make  it  drift,  and  drift,  and  drift. 
In  flakes  so  icy-cold  and  swift. 

Until  the  heart  that  lies  below 
Is  cold  and  colder  than  the  snow. 


A Christmas  Chant. 


249 


And  thus  with  the  shadows  only, 
And  the  dreamings  they  unweave. 
Alone,  and  yet  not  lonely, 

I keep  my  Christmas  eve. 


’Tis  passing  fast! 

My  fireless,  lampless  room 
Is  a mass  of  moveless  gloom; 
And  without — a darkness  vast. 
Solemn — starless — still  I 
Heaven  and  earth  doth  filL 


But  list!  there  soundeth  a bell. 
With  a mystical  ding,  dong,  dell! 
Is  it  say,  is  it  a funeral  knell? 
Solemn  and  slow, 

Now  loud — ^now  low; 

Pealing  the  notes  of  human  woe 
Over  the  graves  lying  under  the  snow! 
Ah!  that  pitiless  ding,  dong,  dell! 
Trembling  along  the  gale. 

Under  the  stars  and  over  the  snow. 
Why  is  it?  whence  is  it  sounding  so? 

Is  it  a toll  of  a burial  bell? 


250 


A Christmas  Chant. 


Or  is  it  a spirit’s  wail? 

Solemnly,  mournfully. 

Sad — and  how  lornfullyl 
Ding,  dong  dell! 

Whence  is  it?  who  can  tell? 

And  the  marvelous  notes  they  sink  and  swell. 
Sadder,  and  sadder,  and  sadder  still! 

How  the  sounds  tremble!  how  they  thrill! 
Every  tone 
So  like  a moan; 

As  if  the  strange  bell’s  stranger  clang 
Throbbed  with  a terrible  human  pang* 


Ding,  dong,  dell! 

Dismally,  drearily. 

Ever  so  wearily. 

Far  off  and  faint  as  a Eequiem  plaint 
Floats  the  deep-toned  voice  of  the  mystic  bell 
Piercingly — thrillingly. 

Icily — chillingly. 

Near — ^and  more  near. 

Drearer — ^and  more  drear, 

Sonndeth  the  wild,  weird,  ding,  dong,  dell! 


Now  sinking  lower. 
It  tolleth  slower! 


A Christmas  Chant. 


251 


I list,  and  I hear  its  sound  no  more. 

And  now,  methinks,  I know  that  bell. 
Know  it  well — know  its  knell — 

For  I often  heard  it  sound  before. 


It  is  a bell — ^yet  not  a bell 

Whose  sound  may  reach  the  earl 
It  tolls  a knell — ^yet  not  a knell 
Which  earthly  sense  may  hear. 

In  every  soul  a bell  of  dole 
Hangs  ready  to  be  tolled; 

And  from  that  bell  a funeral  knell 
Is  often  outward  rolled; 

And  memory  is  the  sexton  grey 
Who  tolls  the  dreary  knell; 

And  nights  like  this  he  loves  to  sway 
And  swing  his  mystic  bell. 

’Twas  that  I heard  and  nothing  more. 
This  lonely  Christmas  eve; 

Then,  for  the  dead  Fll  meet  no  mere. 
At  Christmas  let  me  grieve. 


Night,  be  a priesti  put  your  star-stole  (m 
And  murmur  a holy  prayer 
Over  each  grave,  and  for  every  one 
Lying  down  lifeless  there  I 


252 


A Christmas  Chant. 


And  over  the  dead  stands  the  high  priest  Night, 
Eobed  in  his  shadowy  stole; 

And  beside  him  I kneel  as  his  acolyte, 

To  respond  to  his  prayer  of  dole. 

And  list!  he  begins 
That  psalm  for  sins, 

The  first  of  the  mournful  seven; 

Plaintive  and  soft 
It  rises  aloft, 

Begging  the  mercy  of  Heaven 
To  pity  and  forgive, 

For  the  sake  of  those  who  live. 

The  dead  who  have  died  unshriven. 

Miserere!  Miserere! 

Still  your  heart  and  hush  your  breath! 

The  voices  of  despair  and  death 

Are  shuddering  through  the  psalm! 
Miserere!  Miserere! 

Lift  your  hearts!  the  terror  dies! 

Tip  in  yonder  sinless  skies 

The  psalms  sound  sweet  and  calm! 

Miserere!  Miserere! 

Very  low,  in  tender  tones. 

The  music  pleads,  the  music  moans, 
forgive  and  have  forgiven. 

The  dead  whose  hearts  were  shriven.'^ 


A Christmas  Chard. 


253 


Deprofundis!  De  profundis! 

Psalm  of  the  dead  and  disconsolate! 

Thou  hast  sounded  through  a thousand  years. 
And  pealed  above  ten  thousand  biers; 

And  still,  sad  psalm,  you  mourn  the  fate 
Of  sinners  and  of  just, 

When  their  souls  are  going  up  to  God, 

Their  bodies  down  to  dust. 

)read  hymn ! you  wring  the  saddest  tears 
From  mortal  eyes  that  fall. 

And  your  notes  evoke  the  darkest  fears 
That  human  hearts  appall! 

You  sound  o’er  the  good,  you  sound  o’er  the  bad. 
And  ever  your  music  is  sad,  so  sad, 

We  seem  to  hear  murmured  in  every  tone. 

For  the  saintly  a blessing;  for  sinners  a curse. 
Psalm,  sad  psalm ! you  must  pray  and  grieve 
Over  our  dead  on  this  Christmas  eve. 

De  profundis!  De  profundis! 

And  the  night  chants  the  psalm  o’er  the  mortal  clay 
And  the  spirits  immortal  from  far  away. 

To  the  music  of  hope  sing  this  sweet-toned  lay. 

You  think  of  the  dead  on  Christmas  eve. 

Wherever  the  dead  are  sleeping. 

And  we  from  a land  where  we  may  not  grieve. 
Look  tenderly  down  on  your  weeping. 


254 


A Christmas  Chant. 


You  think  us  far,  we  are  very  near. 

From  you  and  the  earth  though  partedj 
We  sing  to-night  to  console  and  cheer 
The  hearts  of  the  broken-hearted. 

The  earth  watches  over  the  lifeless  clay 
Of  each  of  its  countless  sleepers. 

And  the  sleepless  spirits  that  passed  away 
Watch  over  all  earth’s  weepers. 

We  shall  meet  again  in  a brighter  land. 

Where  farewell  is  never  spoken; 

We  shall  clasp  each  other  in  hand. 

And  the  clasp  shall  not  be  broken; 

We  shall  meet  again,  in  a bright,  calm  clime. 
Where  we’ll  never  know  a sadness. 

And  our  lives  shall  be  filled,  like  a Christmas  chime^ 
With  rapture  and  with  gladness. 

The  snows  shall  pass  from  our  graves  away. 

And  you  from  the  earth,  remember; 

And  the  fiowers  of  a bright,  eternal  May, 

Shall  follow  earth’s  December. 

When  you  think  of  us  think  not  of  the  tomb 
Where  you  laid  us  down  in  sorrow; 

But  look  aloft,  and  beyond  earth’s  gloom. 

And  wait  for  the  great  to-morrow. 

And  the  Pontifi*,  night,  with  his  star-stole  on, 
Whispereth  soft  and  low: 

Eequiescatl  Eequiescatl 


A Christmas  Chant* 


255 


Peace  I Peace!  to  every  one 
For  whom  we  grieve  this  Christmas  eve. 
In  their  graves  beneath  the  snow. 

The  stars  in  the  far-off  heaven 
Have  long  since  struck  eleven! 

And  hark!  from  temple  and  from  tower, 
Soundeth  time’s  grandest  midnight  hour. 
Blessed  by  the  Saviour’s  birth. 

And  night  putteth  off  the  sable  stole, 
Symbol  of  sorrow  and  sign  of  dole. 

For  one  with  many  a starry  gem. 

To  honor  the  Babe  of  Bethlehem, 

Who  comes  to  men  the  King  of  them. 

Yet  comes  without  robe  or  diadem  j 
And  all  turn  towards  the  holy  east. 

To  hear  the  song  of  the  Christmas  feast. 

Four  thousand  years  earth  waited. 

Four  thousand  years  men  prayed. 
Four  thousand  years  the  nations  sighed 
That  their  King  so  long  delayed. 

The  prophets  told  His  coming. 

The  saintly  for  Him  sighed* 

And  the  star  of  the  Babe  of  Bethlehem 
Shone  o’er  them  when  they  died. 


256 


A Ohristmas  Chard. 


Their  faces  towards  the  future. 

They  longed  to  hail  the  light 

That  in  the  after  centuries 

Would  rise  on  Christmas  night 

But  still  the  Saviour  tarried. 

Within  His  fa  therms  home* 

And  the  nations  wept  and  wondered  why 
The  promised  had  not  come. 

At  last  earth’s  hope  was  granted. 

And  God  was  a child  of  earth; 

And  a thousand  angels  chanted 
The  lowly  midnight  birth. 

Ah  I Bethlehem  was  grander 
That  hour  than  paradise: 

And  the  light  of  earth  that  night  eclipsed 
The  splendors  of  the  skies. 

Then  let  us  sing  the  anthem 
The  angels  once  did  sing; 

Until  the  music  of  love  and  praise. 

O’er  whole  wide  world  will  ring. 

Gloria  in  excelsisl 
Sound  the  thrilling  song; 


A Christmas  ChcmL 


257 


In  excelsis  Deo! 

Roll  the  hymn  along.^ 

Gloria  in  excelsis! 

Let  the  heavens  ring; 

In  excelsis  Deo! 

Welcome,  new-born  King, 

Gloria  in  excelsis! 

Over  the  sea  and  land. 

In  excelsis  Deo! 

Chant  the  anthem  grand, 

Gloria  in  excelsis! 

Let  us  all  rejoice; 

In  excelsis  Deo! 

Lift  each  heart  and  voice, 

Gloria  in  excelsis! 

Swell  the  hymn  on  high; 

In  excelsis  Deo! 

Sound  it  to  the  sky. 

Gloria  in  excelsis! 

Sing  it,  sinful  earth. 

In  excelsis  Deo! 

For  the  Saviour’s  birth. 

Thus  joyful  and  victoriously. 

Glad  and  ever  so  gloriously. 

High  as  the  heavens,  wide  as  the  earth, 
Swelleth  the  hymn  of  the  Saviour’s  birth. 


258 


A Christmas  Chant. 


Lol  the  day  is  waking 
In  the  east  afar; 

Dawn  is  faintly  breaking^ 
Sank  is  every  star. 


Christmas  eve  has  vanished 
With  its  shadows  gray; 
All  its  griefs  are  banished 
By  bright  Christmas  day: 


Joyful  chimes  are  ringing 
O’er  the  land  and  seas. 

And  there  comes  glad  singing 
Borne  on  every  breeze. 


Little  ones  so  merry 
Bed-clothes  coyly  lifl^ 
And,  in  such  a hurry. 
Prattle  “Christmas  gift  I** 

little  heads  so  curly. 
Knowing  Christmas  laws^ 
Peep  out  very  early 
For  old  “Santa  Claus.’' 


A Christmas  Chard. 


259 


Little  eyes  are  laughing 
O’er  their  Christmas  toys. 
Older  ones  are  quaffing 
Cups  of  Christmas  joys. 


Hearts  are  joyous,  cheerful. 
Faces  all  are  gay; 

None  are  sad  and  tearful 
On  bright  Christmas  day. 


Hearts  are  light  and  bounding^ 
All  from  care  are  free; 
Homes  are  all  resounding 
With  the  sounds  of  glee. 


Feet  with  feet  are  meeting, 
Bent  on  pleasure’s  way; 
Souls  to  souls  give  greeting 
Warm  on  Christmas  day. 

Gifts  are  kept  a-going 
Fast  from  hand  to  hand; 
Blessings  are  a-flowing 
Over  every  land. 


260 


A Christmas  Chard. 


One  vast  wave  of  gladness 
Sweeps  its  world-wide  way. 
Drowning  every  sadness 
On  this  Christmas  day. 


Merry,  merry  Christmas, 
Haste  around  the  earth; 
Merry,  merry  Christmas, 
Scatter  smiles  and  mirth. 


Merry,  merry  Christmas, 
Be  to  one  and  all!  ♦ 
Merry,  merry  Christmas, 
Enter  hut  and  hall. 


Merry,  merry  Christmas, 
Be  to  rich  and  poor! 
Merry,  merry  Christmas 
Stop  at  every  door. 

Merry,  merry  Christmas, 
Fill  each  heart  with  joyl 
Merry,  merry  Christmas 
To  each  girl  and  boy. 


A Christmas  Chant. 


261 


Merry,  merry  Christmas, 
Better  gifts  than  gold; 
Merry,  merry  Christmas 
To  the  young  and  old. 

Merry,  merry  Christmas, 
May  the  coming  year 
Bring  as  merry  a Christmas 
And  as  bright  a cheer. 


^^FAR  away:^ 


Par  away!  what  does  it  mean? 

A change  of  heart  with  a change  of  place? 
When  footsteps  pass  from  scene  to  scene, 
Fades  soul  from  soul  with  face  from  face? 
Are  hearts  the  slaves  or  lords  of  space? 

^^Far  Away!’^  what  does  it  mean? 

Does  distance  sever  there  from  here? 

Can  leagues  of  land  part  hearts? — I ween 
They  cannot;  for  the  trickling  tear 
Says  ^^Far  Away’^  means  ^^Far  More  Near/^ 

‘^Far  Away!” — ^the  mournful  miles 
Are  but  the  mystery  of  space 
That  blends  our  sighs,  but  parts  our  smiles; 
For  love  will  find  a meeting  place 
When  face  is  farthest  off  from  face. 

‘^Far  Away!”  we  meet  in  dreams. 

As  ’round  the  altar  of  the  night 
Far-parted  stars  send  down  their  gleams 
To  meet  in  one  embrace  of  light. 

And  make  the  brow  of  darkness  bright. 


^^Far  Away^^ 


263 


*^Far  Away!’’  we  meet  in  tears. 

That  tell  the  path  of  weary  feet; 

And  all  the  good-byes  of  the  years 

But  make  the  wanderer’s  welcome  sweel^ 
The  rains  of  parted  clouds  thus  meet. 

*^Far  Away!”  we  meet  in  prayer. 

You  know  the  temple  and  the  shrinej 
Before  it  bows  the  brow  of  care. 

Upon  it  tapers  dimly  shine; 

’Tis  mercy’s  home,  and  yours  and  mine. 

"Far  Away!”  it  falls  between 
What  is  to-day  and  what  has  been; 

But  ah!  what  is  meets  what  is  not. 

In  every  hour  and  every  spot. 

Where  lips  breathe  on  "I  have  forgot.’^ 

"Far  Away!”  there  is  no  far! 

Nor  days  nor  distance  e’er  can  bar 
My  spirit  from  your  spirits — ^nay. 

Farewell  may  waft  a face  away. 

But  still  with  you  my  heart  will  stay. 

"Far  Away!”  I sing  its  song. 

But  while  the  music  moves  along. 

From  out  each  word  an  echo  clear 
Falls  trembling  on  my  spirit’s  ear, 

"Far  Away”  means  "Far  More  Near.” 


listen: 


We  borrow, 

In  our  sorrow. 

Prom  the  sun  of  some  to-morrow 
Half  the  light  that  gilds  to-day; 
And  the  splendor 
Flashes  tender 

O’er  hope’s  footsteps  to  defend  her 
From  the  fears  that  haunt  the  way. 


We  never 
Here  can  sever 
Any  now  from  the  forever 
Interclasping  near  and  farl 
For  each  minute 
Holds  within  it 
All  the  hours  of  the  infinites 
As  one  sky  holds  every  stai; 


(mi 


WRECKED. 


The  winds  are  singing  a death-knell 
Out  on  the  main  to-night; 

The  sky  droops  low — and  many  a bark 
That  sailed  from  harbors  bright, 

Like  many  an  one  before, 

Shall  enter  port  no  more: 

Aiad  a wreck  shall  drift  to  some  unknown  shore 
Before  to-morrow’s  light. 


The  clouds  are  hanging  a death-pall 
Over  the  sea  to-night; 

The  stars  are  veiled — and  the  hearts  that  sailed 
Away  from  harbors  bright, 

Shall  sob  their  last  for  their  quiet  home — 

And,  sobbing,  sink  ’neath  the  whirling  foam 
Before  the  morning’s  light. 


(265) 


266 


Wreched. 


The  waves  are  weaving  a death -shroud 
Out  on  the  main  to-night; 

Alas ! the  last  prayer  whispered  there 
By  lips  with  terror  white! 

Over  the  ridge  of  gloom 
Not  a star  will  loom! 

God  help  the  souls  that  will  meet  their  doom 
Before  the  dawn  of  light! 

4c  * H:  4:  4: 

The  breeze  is  singing  a joy  song 
Over  the  sea  to-day; 

The  storm  is  dead  and  the  waves  are  red 
With  the  flush  of  the  morning’s  ray; 

And  the  sleepers  sleep,  but  beyond  the  deep 

The  eyes  that  watch  for  the  ships  shall  weep 
For  the  hearts  they  bore  away. 


DREAMING. 


The  moan  of  a wintry  soul 
Melted  into  a summer  song, 

And  the  words,  like  the  wavelet’s  roll. 
Moved  murmuringly  along. 

And  the  song  flowed  far  and  away. 

Like  the  voice  of  a half-sleeping  rill — • 
Each  wave  of  it  lit  by  a ray — 

But  the  sound  was  so  soft  and  so  still. 


And  the  tone  was  so  gentle  and  low, 

None  heard  the  song  till  it  had  passed; 
Till  the  echo  that  followed  its  flow 
Came  dreamingly  back  from  the  past. 


’Twas  too  late! — a song  never  returns 
That  passes  our  pathway  unheard; 
As  dust  lying  dreaming  in  urns 
Is  the  song  lying  dead  in  a word. 


(267) 


268 


Dreaming. 


For  the  birds  of  the  skies  have  a nest, 

And  the  winds  have  a home  where  they  sleep, 
And  songs,  like  our  souls,  need  a rest. 

Where  they  murmur  the  while  we  may  weep. 


But  songs — like  the  birds  o’er  the  foam. 

Where  the  storm-wind  is  beating  their  breast. 
Fly  shoreward — and  oft  find  a home 
In  the  shelter  of  words  where  they  rest. 


4: 


♦ 


4c 


A THOUGHT. 


Hearts  that  are  great  beat  never  lond. 

They  muffle  their  music,  when  they  come; 
They  hurry  away  from  the  thronging  crowd 
With  bended  brows  and  lips  half-dumb. 


And  the  world  looks  on  and  mutters — ^^Proud.’^ 
But  when  great  hearts  have  passed  away 
Men  gather  in  awe  and  kiss  their  shroud, 

And  in  love  they  kneel  around  their  clay. 


Hearts  that  are  great  are  always  lone. 
They  never  will  manifest  their  best; 
Their  greatest  greatness  is  unknown — 
Earth  knows  a little — God,  the  rest. 


(269) 


^^YESTERDAYSr 


Goke!  and  they  return  no  more, 

But  they  leave  a light  in  the  heart; 
The  murmur  of  waves  that  kiss  a shore 
Will  never,  I know,  depart. 


Gone!  yet  with  us  still  they  stay. 

And  their  memories  throb  through  life* 
The  music  that  hushes  or  stirs  to-day. 

Is  toned  by  their  calm  or  strife. 

Gone!  and  yet  they  never  go! 

We  kneel  at  the  shrine  of  Time: 

’Tis  a mystery  no  man  may  know, 

Nor  tell  in  a poet’s  rhyme. 


to-days:^ 


Bbief  while  they  last. 

Long  when  they  are  gone; 
They  catch  from  the  past 
A light  to  still  liv^  on. 

Brief  I yet  I ween 
A day  may  be  an  age. 

The  poet^s  pen  may  screen 
Heart-stories  on  one  page® 

Brief!  but  in  them, 

From  eye  back  to  morn. 
Some  find  the  gem. 

Many  find  the  thorn. 

Brief!  minutes  pass 
Soft  as  fiakes  of  snow. 
Shadows  o’er  the  grass 
Could  not  swifter  go. 

Brief!  but  along 
All  the  after-years 
To-day  will  be  a song 
Of  smiles  or  of  tears. 


^TO-MORROWS.^ 


God  knows  all  things — ^but  wa 
In  darkness  walk  our  ways. 

We  wonder  what  will  be, 

We  ask  the  nights  and  days. 

Their  lips  are  sealed;  at  times 
The  bards,  like  prophets,  see. 

And  rays  rush  o’er  their  rhymes 
From  suns  of  ‘^^days  to  be.’^ 

They  see  To-morrow’s  heart, 
They  read  To-morrow’s  face. 

They  grasp — is  it  by  art? — 

The  far  To-morrow’s  trace. 

They  see  what  is  unseen. 

And  hear  what  is  unheard. 

And  To-morrow’s  shade  or  sheen 
Rests  on  the  poet’s  word. 

(272) 


To-MorrowsJ^ 


273 


As  seers  see  a star 
Beyond  the  brow  of  nighty 
6o  poets  scan  the  far. 
Prophetic  when  they  write. 


They  read  a human  face. 

As  readers  read  their  page, 

The  while  their  thought  will  trace 
A life  from  youth  to  age. 

They  have  a mournful  gift. 

Their  verses  oft  are  tears} 

And  sleepless  eyes  they  lift 
To  look  adown  the  years. 


To-morrows  are  to-daysl 
Is  it  not  more  than  art? 
When  all  lifers  winding  wayts^ 
Meet  in  the  poet’s  heart. 


The  present  meets  the  past^ 
The  future,  too,  is  there; 
The  first  enclasps  the  lasl^ 
And  never  folds  fore’er. 


274 


To-Morrows** 


It  is  not  all  a dream; 

A poet’s  thought  is  truth; 
The  things  that  are — and  seem 
From  age  far  back  to  youth— 


He  holds  the  tangled  threads  i 
His  hands  unravel  them; 

He  knows  the  hearts  and  heads 
For  thorns,  or  diadem. 


Ask  him,  and  he  will  see 
What  your  to-morrows  are; 
He’ll  sing  ^^What  is  to  be’^ 
Beneath  each  sun  and  star. 


To-morrows!  Dread  unknown  I 
What  fates  may  they  not  bring? 
What  is  the  chord?  the  tone? 

The  key  in  which  they  sing? 


I see  a thousand  throngs. 
To-morrows  for  them  wait; 
I hear  a thousand  songs 
Intoning  each  one’s  fate. 


To-Morrows.^^ 


275 


And  yours?  What  will  it  be? 

Hush!  song,  and  let  me  prayl 
God  sees  it  all — I see 
A long,  lone,  winding  way; 


And  more!  no  matter  what! 

Crosses  and  crowns  you  wear: 
My  song  may  be  forgot, 

But  Thou  shalt  not,  in  prayer. 


INEVITABLE. 


What  has  been  will  be, 

’Tis  the  under-law  of  life; 

^Tis  the  song  of  sky  and  sea, 

To  the  key  of  calm  and  strifOb 


For  guard  we  as  we  may, 

What  is  to  be  will  be, 

The  dark  must  fold  each  day— 
The  shore  must  gird  each  sea. 


All  things  are  ruled  by  law; 

^Tis  only  in  man’s  will 
You  meet  a feeble  flaw; 

But  fate  is  weaving  still 


The  web  and  woof  of  life, 

With  hands  that  have  no  hearts, 
Thro’  calmness  and  thro’  strife. 
Despite  all  human  arts. 


Inevitable. 


277 


For  fate  is  master  here, 

He  laughs  at  human  wilesj 
He  sceptres  every  tear, 

And  fetters  any  smiles. 


What  is  to  be  will  be, 

We  cannot  help  ourselves; 

The  waves  ask  not  the  sea 
Where  lies  the  shore  that  shelves. 


The  law  is  coldest  steel, 

We  live  beneath  its  sway. 
It  cares  not  what  we  feel. 
And  so  pass  night  and  day. 


And  sometimes  we  may  think 
This  cannot — ^will  not — ^be: 
Some  waves  must  rise — some  sink, 
Out  on  the  midnight  sea. 

And  we  are  weak  as  waves 
That  sink  upon  the  shore; 

We  go  down  into  graves — 

Fate  chants  the  nevermore; 

a|K  « ♦ ♦ 


278 


Inevitable. 


Cometh  a voice!  Kneel  down  I 
^Tis  God’s — there  is  no  fate — 
He  giveth  the  cross  and  crown. 
He  opens  the  jeweled  gate. 


He  watcheth  with  such  eyes 
As  only  mothers  own — 
‘‘Sweet  Father  in  the  skiesi 
Ye  call  us  to  a throne.^^ 


There  is  no  fate — God’s  love 
Is  law  beneath  each  law. 
And  law  all  laws  above 
Fore’er,  without  a flaw. 


SORROW  AND  THE  FLOWERS. 


A MEMORIAL  WREATH  TO  C.  P* 

SOBROW; 

UBLAiq'D  for  a grave!  Fair  flowers  that  bloom, 
only  bloom  to  fade  as  fast  away, 

\Te  twine  your  leaflets  ^round  our  Claudia’s  tomb, 
And  with  your  dying  beauty  crown  her  clay. 

« 

Ye  are  the  tender  types  of  life’s  decay; 

Your  beauty,  and  your  love-enfragranced  breath. 

From  out  the  hand  of  June,  or  heart  of  May, 

Fair  flowers!  tell  less  of  life  and  more  of  death. 

My  name  is  Sorrow.  I have  knelt  at  graves. 

All  o’er  the  weary  Avorld  for  weary  years; 

I kneel  there  still,  and  still  my  anguish  laves 
The  sleeping  dust  with  moaning  streams  of  tears. 

And  yet,  the  while  I garland  graves  as  now, 

I bring  fair  wreaths  to  deck  the  place  of  woe; 

Whilst  joy  is  crowning  many  a living  brow, 

I crown  the  poor,  frail  dust  that  sleeps  below. 

(279) 


280 


Sorrow  and  the  Flowers. 


She  was  a flower — fresh,  fair,  and  pure,  and  frail; 

A lily  in  life’s  morning:  God  is  sweet; 

He  reached  His  hand,  there  rose  a mother’s  wail; 

Her  lily  drooped:  ’tis  blooming  at  His  feet. 

Where  are  the  flowers  to  crown  the  faded  flower? 

I want  a garland  for  another  grave; 

And  who  will  bring  them  from  the  dell  and  bower, 

To  crown  what  God  hath  taken,  with  what  heaven 
gave? 

As  though  ye  heard  my  voice,  ye  heed  my  will; 

Ye  come  with  fairest  flowera:  give  them  to  me, 

To  crown  our  Claudia.  Love  leads  memory  still. 

To  prove  at  graves  love’s  immortality. 

WHITE  eose: 

Her  grave  is  not  a grave;  it  is  a shrine. 

Where  innocence  reposes. 

Bright  over  which  God’s  stars  must  love  to  shine. 
And  where,  when  Winter  closes. 

Fair  Spring  shall  come,  and  in  her  garland  twine, 
Just  like  this  hand  of  mine. 

The  whitest  of  white  roses. 

laukel: 

I found  it  on  a mountain  slope. 

The  sunlight  on  its  face; 


Sorroiv  and  the  Flowers, 


2S1 


It  caught  from  clouds  a smile  of  hope 
That  brightened  all  the  place. 

They  wreathe  with  it  the  warrior’s  brow, 

And  crown  the  chieftain’s  head; 

But  the  laurel’s  leaves  love  best  to  grace 
The  garland  of  the  dead. 

WILD  flower: 

I would  not  live  in  a garden, 

But  far  from  the  haunts  of  men; 

Nature  herself  was  my  warden; 

I lived  in  a lone  little  glen. 

A wild  flower  out  of  the  wildwood. 

Too  wild  for  even  a name; 

As  strange  and  as  simple  as  childhood. 

And  wayward,  yet  sweet  all  the  same. 

WILLOW  branch: 

To  sorrow’s  own  sweet  crown, 

With  simple  grace, 

The  weeping-willow  bends  her  branches  down 
Just  like  a mother’s  arm, 

To  shield  from  harm. 

The  dead  within  their  resting  place. 


282 


Sorrow  and  the  Flowers. 


liiLY: 

The  angel  flower  of  all  the  flowers: 

Its  sister  flowers, 

In  all  the  bowers 
Worship  the  lily,  for  it  brings. 

Wherever  it  blooms. 

On  shrines  or  tombs, 

A dream  surpassing  earthly  sense 
Of  heaven’s  own  stainless  innocence. 

VIOLET  leaves: 

It  is  too  late  for  violets, 

I only  bring  their  leaves; 

I looked  in  vain  for  mignonettes 
To  grace  the  crown  grief  weaves; 

For  queenly  May,  upon  her  way, 

Eobs  half  the  bowers 
Of  all  their  flowers. 

And  leaves  but  leaves  to  June. 

Ah  I beauty  fades  so  soon; 

And  the  valley  grows  lonely  in  spite  of  the  sun, 
For  flowerets  are  fading  fast,  one  by  one. 

Leaves  for  a grave,  leaves  for  a garland. 

Leaves  for  a little  flower,  gone  to  the  far  land. 


Sorrow  and  the  Flowers. 


283 


fouget-me-not: 

^^Forget-me-not!’’  The  sad  words  strangely  quiver 
On  lips,  like  shadows  falling  on  a river, 

FloV'ing  away. 

By  night,  by  day, 

Flowing  away  forever. 

The  mountain  whence  the  river  springs 
Murmurs  to  it,  forget  me  not;” 

The  little  stream  runs  on  and  sings 
On  to  the  sea,  and  every  spot 
It  passes  by 
Breathes  forth  a sigh, 

^‘Forget  me  not!”  ^^forget  me  notl’^ 

A garland: 

I bring  this  for  her  mother;  ah,  who  knows 
The  lonely  deeps  within  a mother’s  heart? 
Beneath  the  wildest  wave  of  woe  that  flows 
Above,  around  her,  when  her  children  part. 
There  is  a sorrow,  silent,  dark,  and  lone; 

It  sheds  no  tears,  it  never  maketh  moan. 

Whene’er  a child  dies  from  a mother’s  arms, 

A grave  is  dug  within  the  mother’s  heart: 

She  watches  it  alone;  no  words  of  art 


284 


Sorrow  and  the  Flowers. 


Can  tell  the  story  of  her  vigils  there. 

This  garland  fading  even  while  Tis  fair. 

It  is  a mother’s  memory  of  a grave. 

When  God  hath  taken  her  whom  heaven  gave. 

sorrow: 

Farewell!  I go  to  crown  the  dead; 

Yet  ye  have  crowned  yourselves  to-day. 

For  they,  whose  hearts  so  faithful,  love 
The  lonely  grave — the  very  clay; 

They  crown  themselves  with  richer  gems 
Than  flash  in  royal  diadems. 


HOPE. 


Thine  eyes  are  dim: 

A mist  hath  gathered  there; 

Around  their  rim 

Float  many  clouds  of  care. 

And  there  is  sorrow  every — everywhere. 

But  there  is  God, 

Every — everywhere ; 

Beneath  His  rod 
Kneel  thou  adown  in  prayer# 

For  grief  is  God’s  own  kiss 
Upon  a soul. 

Look  up ! the  sun  of  bliss 
Will  shine  where  storm-clouds  roll# 

Yes,  weeper,  weep  I 
T?will  not  be  evermore; 

I know  the  darkest  deep 
Hath  e’en  the  brightest  shore. 


286 


"[lope. 

So  tired!  so  tired! 

A cry  of  half  despair; 

Look!  at  your  side — 

And  see  Who  standeth  therel 


Your  Father!  Hush! 

A heart  beats  in  His  breast; 
Now  rise  and  rush 

Into  His  arms — ^and  rest. 


FAREWELLS! 


Thet  are  so  sad  to  say : no  poem  tells 
The  agony  of  hearts  that  dwells 
In  lone  and  last  farewells. 

They  are  like  deaths:  they  bring  a wintry  chill 
To  summer’s  roses,  and  to  summer’s  rill; 

And  yet  we  breathe  them  still. 

For  pure  as  altar-lights  hearts  pass  away; 

Hearts!  we  said  to  them,  ^^Stay  with  us!  stay!’^ 

And  they  said,  sighing  as  they  said  it,  ‘^Kay.’^ 

The  sunniest  days  are  shortest;  darkness  tells 
The  starless  story  of  the  night  that  dwells 
In  lone  and  last  farewells. 

Two  faces  meet  here,  there,  or  anywhere: 

Each  wears  the  thoughts  the  other  face  may  wear; 
Their  hearts  may  break,  breathing,  Farewell  fore’er.” 


80m  OF  THE  RIVER. 


A EIVER  went  singing  adown  to  the  sea, 
A-singing — ^low — singing — 

And  the  dim  rippling  river  said  softly  to  me, 
^^Pm  bringing,  a-bringing — 

While  floating  along — 

A beautiful  song 

To  the  shores  that  are  white  where  the  waves  are  so 
weary, 

To  the  beach  that  is  burdened  with  wrecks  that  are 
dreary. 

A song  sweet  and  calm 
As  the  peacefulest  psalm; 

And  the  shore  that  was  sad 
Will  be  grateful  and  glad. 

And  the  weariest  wave  from  its  dreariest  dream 
Will  wake  to  the  sound  of  the  song  of  the  stream: 

And  the  tempests  shall  cease 
And  there  shall  be  peace.’’ 

Prom  the  fairest  of  fountains 
And  farthest  of  mountains. 

From  the  stillness  of  snow 
Came  the  stream  in  its  flow. 

(2881 


The  river  ran  on — and  on — and  on — 
Day  and  night,  and  night  and  day, 
Going  and  going,  and  never  gone. 
Longing  to  flow  on  the  “ far  away/* 


Song  of  the  River. 


289 


Down  the  slopes  where  the  rocks  are  gray, 

Thro^  the  vales  where  the  flowers  are  fair — 

Where  the  sunlight  flashed — where  the  shadows  lay 
Like  stories  that  cloud  a face  of  care. 

The  river  ran  on — and  on — ^and  on — 

Day  and  night,  and  night  and  day; 

Going  and  going,  and  never  gone. 

Longing  to  flow  to  the  far  away,’' 

Staying  and  staying,  and  never  still; 

Going  and  staying,  as  if  one  will 
Said,  ^‘Beautiful  river,  go  to  the  sea,” 

And  another  will  whispered,  ^^Stay  with  me:” 
And  the  river  made  answer,  soft  and  low — 
go  and  stay” — stay  and  go.” 

But  what  is  the  song,  I said,  at  last? 

To  the  passing  river  that  never  passed; 

And  a white,  white  wave  whispered,  ‘^List  to  me, 
I’m  a note  in  the  song  for  the  beautiful  sea, 

A song  whose  grand  accents  no  earth-din  may  sever. 
And  the  river  flows  on  in  the  same  mystic  key 
That  blends  in  one  chord  the  ^forever  and  never.’” 
DECEMBna  15,  1878w 


DREAMLAND. 


OvEK  the  silent  sea  of  sleep. 

Far  away!  far  away! 

Over  a strange  and  starlit  deep 
Where  the  beautiful  shadows  swayj 
Dim  in  the  dark, 

Glideth  a bark. 

Where  never  the  waves  of  a tempest  roll— 
Bearing  the  very  ^^soul  of  the  souV^ 
Alone,  all  alone — 

Far  away — far  away 
To  shores  all  unknown 
In  the  wakings  of  the  day; 

To  the  lovely  land  of  dreams. 

Where  what  is  meets  with  what  seems 
Brightly  dim,  dimly  bright; 

Where  the  suns  meet  stars  at  night. 
Where  the  darkness  meets  the  light 
Heart  to  heart,  face  to  face. 

In  an  infinite  embrace. 

^ ^ if,  ^ m ^ 


I^reamland. 


291 


Mornings  break. 

And  we  wake, 

And  we  wonder  where  we  went 
In  the  bark 
Thro’  the  dark. 

But  our  wonder  is  misspent; 
For  no  day  can  cast  a light 
On  the  dreamings  of  the  night» 


LINES. 


Sometimes,  from  the  far-away. 

Wing  a little  thought  to  me; 

In  the  night  or  in  the  day. 

It  will  give  a rest  to  me. 

I have  praise  of  many  here. 

And  the  world  gives  me  renown; 

Let  it  go — ^give  me  one  tear, 

^Twill  be  a jewel  in  my  crown. 

What  care  I for  earthly  fame? 

How  I shrink  from  all  its  glare  I 

I would  rather  that  my  name 
Would  be  shrined  in  some  one^s  prayer. 

Many  hearts  are  all  too  much. 

Or  too  little  in  their  praise; 

I would  rather  feel  the  touch 

Of  one  prayer  that  thrills  all  days. 

(292) 


A 80m, 


WRITTEN  IN  AN  ALBUll. 


Pure  faced  page!  waiting  so  long 
To  welcome  my  muse  and  me; 

Fold  to  thy  breast,  like  a mother,  the  song 
That  floats  from  my  spirit  to  thee. 

And  song!  sound  soft  as  the  streamlet  sings. 

And  sweet  as  the  Summer’s  birds, 

And  pure  and  bright  and  white  be  the  wings 
That  will  waft  thee  into  words. 

Yea!  fly  as  the  sea-birds  fly  over  the  sea 
To  rest  on  the  far-oflT  beach, 

And  breathe  forth  the  message  I trust  to  thee. 
Tear  toned  on  the  shores  of  speech. 

But  ere  you  go,  dip  your  snowy  wing 
In  a wave  of  my  spirit’s  deep — 

In  the  wave  that  is  purest — then  haste  and  bring 
A song  to  the  hearts  that  weep. 


(293) 


294 


A Song. 


Oh!  bring  it,  and  sing  it — its  notes  are  tears; 

Its  octaves,  the  octaves  of  grief ; 

Who  knows  but  its  tones  in  the  far-off  years 
May  bring  to  the  lone  heart  relief? 


Yea!  bring  it,  and  sing  it — a worded  moan 
That  sweeps  thro’  the  minors  of  woe, 

With  mystical  meanings  in  every  tone. 

And  sounds  like  the  sea’s  lone  flow. 

* sc  « « 

And  the  thoughts  take  the  wings  of  words,  and  float 
Out  of  my  spirit  to  thee; 

But  the  song  dies  away  into  only  one  note. 

And  sounds  but  in  only  one  key. 


And  the  note!  ’tis  the  wail  of  the  weariest  wave 
That  sobs  on  the  loneliest  shore; 

And  the  key!  never  mind!  it  comes  out  of  a grave; 
And  the  chord! — ^’tis  a sad  nevermore.” 


And  just  like  the  wavelet  that  moans  on  the  beach. 
And,  sighing,  sinks  back  to  the  sea, 

So  my  song — it  just  touches  the  rude  shores  of  speech, 
And  its  music  melts  back  into  me. 


A Sang. 


295 


Yea!  song!  shrink  back  to  my  spirit’s  lone  deep. 
Let  others  hear  only  thy  moan — 

But  I — I forever  shall  hear  the  grand  sweep 
Of  thy  mighty  and  tear-burdened  tone. 


Sweep  on!  mighty  song — sound  down  in  my  heart 
As  a storm  sounding  under  a sea; 

Not  a sound  of  thy  music  shall  pass  into  art. 

Nor  a note  of  it  float  out  from  me. 


PARTim. 


Farewell  1 that  word  has  broken  heart® 
And  blinded  eyes  with  tears; 

Farewell!  one  stays,  and  one  departs; 
Between  them  roll  the  years. 

No  wonder  why  who  say  it  think— 
Farewell!  he  may  fare  ill; 

No  wonder  that  their  spirits  sink 
And  all  their  hopes  grow  chill. 

Good-bye!  that  word  makes  faces  pale 
And  fills  the  soul  with  fears; 

Good-bye!  two  words  that  wing  a wail 
Which  fiutters  down  the  years. 

No  wonder  they  who  say  it  feel 
Such  pangs  for  those  who  go; 

Good-bye  they  wish  the  parted  weal. 

But  ah!  they  may  meet  woe. 

Adieu  I such  is  the  word  for  ns, 

^Tis  more  than  word — ^tis  prayer; 

They  do  not  part,  who  do  part  thus. 

For  God  is  everywheri^ 


SAINT  STEPHEN. 


First  champion  of  the  Crucified  I 
Who,  when  the  fight  began 
Between  the  Church  and  worldly  pride 
So  nobly  fought,  so  nobly  died. 

The  foremost  in  the  van; 

While  rallied  to  your  valiant  side 
The  red-robed  martyr-band; 
To-night  with  glad  and  high  acclaim 
We  venerate  thy  saintly  name; 

Accept,  Saint  Stephen,  to  thy  praise 
And  glory,  these  our  lowly  lays. 

The  chosen  twelve  with  chrismed  hand 
And  burning  zeal  within. 

Led  forth  their  small  yet  fearless  band 
On  Pentecost,  and  took  their  stand 
Against  the  world  and  sin — 

While  rang  aloud  the  battle-cry: 

^‘The  hated  Christians  all  must  diel 
As  died  the  Nazarine  before. 

The  God  they  believe  in  and  adore.^ 


298 


Saint  Stephen. 


Yet  Stephen’s  heart  quailed  not  with  fear 
At  persecution’s  cry, 

But  loving,  as  he  did,  the  cause 
Of  Jesus  and  His  faith  and  laws, 
Prepared  himself  to  die; 

He  faced  his  foes  with  burning  zeal, 

Such  zeal  as  only  saints  can  feel; 

He  told  them  how  the  Lord  had  stood 
Within  their  midst,  so  great  and  good. 
How  he  had  through  Judea  trod. 

How  wonders  marked  his  way — the  God, 
How  he  had  cured  the  blind,  the  lame. 
The  deaf,  the  palsied,  and  the  maimed. 
And  how,  with  awful,  wondrous  might. 
He  raised  the  dead  to  life  and  light. 

And  how  His  people  knew  Him  not — 
Had  eyes  and  still  had  seen  Him  not. 

Had  ears  and  still  had  heard  him  not. 
Had  hearts  and  comprehended  not. 

Then  said  he,  pointing  to  the  right. 
Where  darkly  rose  Golgotha’s  hight: 
There  have  ye  slain  the  Holy  One, 

Your  Saviour  and  God’s  only  Son.^ 

They  gnashed  their  teeth  in  raging  ire. 
Those  dark  and  cruel  men, 

They  vowed  a vengeance  deep  and  dire 
Against  Saint  Stephen  then. 


Saint  Stephen. 


299 


Yet  he  was  calm;  a radiant  light 
Around  his  forehead  gleamed; 

He  raised  his  eyes,  a wondrous  sight 
He  saw,  so  grand  it  was  and  bright, 

His  soul  was  filled  with  such  delight 
That  he  an  angel  seemed. 

Then  spoke  the  Saint:  ‘-'A  vision  grand 
Bursts  on  me  from  above: 

The  doors  of  heaven  open  stand. 

And  at  the  Father’s  own  right  hand 
I see  the  Lord  I love.’’ 

**Away  with  him,”  the  rabble  cry, 

With  swelling  rage  and  hate. 

But  Stephen  still  gazed  on  the  sky. 

His  heart  was  with  his  Lord  on  high. 

He  heeded  not  his  fate. 

The  gathering  crowd  in  fury  wild 
Rush  on  the  raptured  Saint, 

And  seize  their  victim  mute  and  mild, 
Who,  like  his  Master,  though  reviled, 
Still  uttered  no  complaint 

^ With  angry  shouts  they  rend  the  air; 
They  drag  him  to  the  city  gate; 

They  bind  his  hands  and  feet,  and  there^ 
While  whispered  he  for  them  a prayer, 
The  Martyr  meets  his  fate. 


300 


Saint  Stephen. 


First  fearless  witness  to  his  belief 
In  Jesus  Crucified, 

The  red-robed  Martyrs^  noble  chief. 
Thus  for  his  Master  died. 

And  to  the  end  of  time  his  name 
Our  Holy  Church  shall  e^er  proclaim. 
And  with  a mother’s  pride  shall  tell 
How  her  great  proto-Martyr  felL 


A FLOWERS S 80m. 


StarI  Star  I why  dost  thou  shine 
Each  night  upon  my  brow  ? 

Why  dost  thou  make  me  dream  the  dreams 
That  I am  dreaming  now? 

Star!  Star!  thy  home  is  high — 

I am  of  humble  birth; 

Thy  feet  walk  shining  o^er  the  sky. 

Mine,  only  on  the  earth. 

Starl  StarI  why  make  me  dream? 

My  dreams  are  all  untrue; 

And  why  is  sorrow  dark  for  me 
And  heaven  bright  for  you? 

StarI  StarI  ohi  hide  thy  ray. 

And  take  it  off  my  face; 

Within  my  lowly  home  I stay, 

Thou,  in  thy  lofty  place. 

StarI  StarI  and  still  I dream. 

Along  thy  light  afar 

1 seem  to  soar  until  I seem 
To  be,  like  you,  a star. 

(8011 


THE  STAR'S  SONO, 


Flower  I Flower  1 why  repine? 

God  knows  each  creature’s  place; 
He  hides  within  me  when  I shine, 
And  yoor  leaves  hide  His  face. 

And  yon  are  near  as  I to  Him, 

And  you  reveal  as  mnch 
Of  that  eternal  soundless  hymn 
Man’s  words  may  never  toodi. 


God  sings  to  man  throngh  all  my  rays 
That  wreathe  the  brow  of  night, 
And  walks  with  me  thro’  all  my  ways— 
The  everlasting  light. 


Flowerl  Flowerl  why  repine? 

He  chose  on  lowly  earth. 
And  not  in  heaven  where  I shine* 
Hift  Bethlehem  and  birth. 


The  Starts  Srnig^ 


303 


Flower!  Flower!  I see  Him  pass 
Each  hour  of  night  and  daj, 
Down  to  an  altar  and  a Mass 

Go  thou!  and  fade  away. 


Fade  away  upon  His  shrine! 

Thy  light  is  brighter  far 
Than  all  the  light  wherewith  I shin^ 
In  heaven,  as  a star. 


DEATH  OF  TEA  F/^WEA 


I LOTS  my  mother,  thi>  vildwood, 
I sleep  upon  her  breast; 

A day  or  two  of  childhood. 

And  then  1 sink  to  rest. 


1 had  once  a lovely  sister — 

She  was  cradled  by  my  side; 

But  one  Summer  day  I missed  her— 
She  had  gone  to  deck  a bride. 


And  I had  another  sister. 

With  cheeks  all  bright  with  bloom; 
And  another  morn  I missed  her — 

She  had  gone  to  wreathe  a tomb. 


And  they  told  me  they  had  withered. 
On  the  bride’s  brow  and  the  grave; 
Half  an  hour,  and  all  their  fragrance 
Died  away,  which  heaven  gave. 


Death  of  the  Flower. 


305 


Two  sweet-faced  girls  came  walking 
Thro^  my  lonely  home  one  day. 

And  I overheard  them  talking 
Of  an  altar  on  their  way. 

They  were  culling  flowers  around  me. 
And  I said  a little  prayer 
To  go  with  them — and  they  found  me— 
And  upon  an  altar  fair. 


Where  the  Eucharist  was  lying 
On  its  mystical  death-bed, 

1 felt  myself  a dying. 

While  the  Mass  was  being  said. 


But  I lived  a little  longer. 

And  I prayed  there  all  the  day. 
Till  the  evening  Benediction, 
When  my  poor  life  passed  away. 


8imim-BiBD, 


In  the  valley  of  my  life 

Sings  a “Singing-Bird,” 

And  its  voice  thro’  calm  and  strife 
Is  sweetly  heard. 

In  the  day  and  thro’  the  night 
Sound  the  notes. 

And  its  song  thro’  dark  and  bright 
Ever  floats. 

Other  warblers  cease  to  sin^ 

And  their  voices  rest, 

And  they  fold  their  weary  wing 
In  their  quiet  nest. 

But  my  Singing-Bird  still  sings 

Without  a cease; 

Ind  each  song  it  murmurs  brings 
My  spirit  peace. 


Singing-Bird, 


307 


“Singing-Bird I”  0 “Singing-Bird I” 
No  one  knows, 

When  your  holy  songs  are  heard. 
What  repose 

Fills  my  life  and  soothes  my  heart; 
But  I fear 

The  day — ^thy  songs,  if  we  must  pari^ 
I’ll  never  hear. 


But  “Singing-Bird I”  ahl  “Singing-Birdl” 
Should  this  e’er  be, 

The  dreams  of  all  thy  songs  I heard 
Shall  sing  for  n^ 


NOW. 


Sometimes  a single  hour 
Rings  thro’  a long  life-tim^ 

As  from  a temple  tower 
There  often  falls  a chime 
From  blessed  bells,  that  seems 
To  fold  in  Heaven’s  dreams 
Our  spirits  round  a shrine; 
Hath  such  an  hour  been  thine? 

Sometimes — ^who  knoweth  wby? 
One  minute  holds  a powej 
That  shadows  ev’ry  hour. 
Dialed  in  life’s  sky. 

A cloud  that  is  a speck 
When  seen  from  far  away 
May  be  a storm,  and  wreck 
The  joys  of  every  day. 


mow. 


309 


Sometimes — ^it  seems  not  much, 
’Tis  scarcely  felt  at  all — 
Grace  gives  a gentle  touch 
To  hearts  for  once  and  all. 
Which  in  the  spirit^s  strife 
May  all  unnoticed  be. 

And  yet  it  rules  a life: 

Hath  this  e’er  come  to  theeP 

Sometimes  one  little  word. 
Whispered  sweet  and  fleet, 
That  scarcely  can  be  heard. 

Our  ears  will  sudden  meet 
And  all  life’s  hours  along 
That  whisper  may  vibrate^ 
And,  like  a wizard’s  song^ 
Decide  our  ev’ry  fate. 

Sometimes  a sudden  look. 

That  falleth  from  some  faoi^ 
Will  steal  into  each  nook 
Of  life,  and  leave  its  trace; 
To  haunt  us  to  the  last, 

And  sway  our  ev’ry  will 
Thro’  all  the  days  to  be. 

For  goodness  or  for  ill; 

Bath  this  e’er  come  to  theeP 


310 


Now. 


Sometimes  one  minute  folds 
The  hearts  of  all  the  years. 
Just  like  the  heart  that  holds 
The  Infinite  in  tears; 

There  be  such  thing  as  this— 
Who  knoweth  why,  or  how  ? 
A life  of  woe  or  bliss 
Hangs  on  some  little  now. 


M ^ ^ 


I am  dead,  and  all  will  soon  forget 
My  words,  and  face,  and  ways — • 

I,  somehow,  think  I’ll  walk  beside  thee  yet 
Adown  thy  after  days. 


I die  first,  and  you  will  see  my  grave; 

But  child!  you  must  not  cry; 

For  my  dead  hand  will  brightest  blessings  wave 
O’er  you  from  yonder  sky. 


You  must  not  weep;  I believe  I’d  hear  your  tears 
Tho’  sleeping  in  a tomb: 

My  rest  would  not  be  rest,  if  in  your  years 
There  floated  clouds  of  gloom. 


For — ^from  the  first — your  soul  was  dear  to  mine, 
And  dearer  it  became. 

Until  my  soul,  in  every  prayer,  would  twine 
Thy  name — my  child!  thy  name. 

(81^ 


312 


JSf  ♦ ♦ ♦ 


You  came  to  me  in  girlhood  pure  and  faii^ 
And  in  your  soul — and  face — 

I saw  a likeness  to  another  there 
In  every  trace  and  grace. 


You  came  to  me  in  girlhood — ^and  you  brought 
An  image  back  to  me; 

No  matter  what — or  whose — I often  sought 
Another's  soul  in  thee. 


Didst  ever  mark  how,  sometimes,  I became — 
Gentle  though  I be — * 

Gentler  than  ever  when  I called  thy  name. 
Gentlest  to  thee? 


You  came  to  me  in  girlhood;  as  your  guides 
I watched  your  spirit’s  ways; 

We  walked  God’s  holy  valleys  side  by  side, 
And  so  went  on  the  days. 


And  so  went  on  the  years — ^’tis  five  and  more; 

Your  soul  is  fairer  now; 

A light  as  of  a sunset  on  a shore 
Is  falling  on  my  brow— 


if  ♦ ♦ 


313 


Is  falling,  soon  to  fade;  when  I am  dead 
Think  this,  my  child,  of  me: 

I never  said — I never  could  have  said — 
Ungentle  words  to  thee. 


I treated  you  as  I would  treat  a flower, 

I watched  you  with  such  care; 

And  from  my  lips  God  heard  in  many  an  hour 
Your  name  in  many  a prayer. 


I watched  the  flower’s  growth;  so  fair  it  grew. 
On  not  a leaf  a stain; 

Your  soul  to  purest  thoughts  so  sweetly  true; 
I did  not  watch  in  vain. 


I guide  you  still — in  my  steps  still  you  tread; 

Towards  God  these  ways  are  set; 

’Twill  soon  be  over:  child!  when  I am  dead 
Fll  watch  and  guide  you  yet 

’Tis  better  far  that  I should  go  before. 

And  you  awhile  should  stay; 

But  I will  wait  upon  the  golden  shore 
To  meet  my  child  some  day. 


314 


Jf  • * * 


When  I am  dead;  in  some  lone  after  time, 

If  crosses  come  to  thee, 

You^l  think — remembering  this  simple  rhyme— ^ 
"He  holds  a crown  for  me.” 


I guide  you  here — I go  before  you  there; 

But  here  or  there — I know— 

Whether  the  roses,  or  the  thorny  crown  you  wear. 
Fll  watch  where’er  you  go. 


And  wait  until  you  come;  when  I am  dead 
Think,  sometimes,  child,  of  this: 

You  must  not  weep — follow  where  I led, 

1 wait  for  you  in  bliss» 


BOD  IN  THE  NIGHT. 


Deep  in  the  dark  I hear  the  feet  of  God: 

He  walks  the  world;  He  puts  His  holy  hand 
On  every  sleeper — only  puts  His  hand — 

Within  it  benedictions  for  each  one — 

Then  passes  on;  but  ah  I whene’er  He  meets 
A watcher  waiting  for  Him,  He  is  glad. 

(Does  God,  like  man,  feel  lonely  in  the  dark?) 
He  rests  His  hand  upon  the  watcher’s  brow — 
But  more  than  that.  He  leaves  His  very  breath 
Upon  the  watcher’s  soul;  and  more  than  this. 
He  stays  for  holy  hours  where  watchers  pray; 
And  more  than  that.  He  ofttimes  lifts  the  veils 
That  hide  the  visions  of  the  world  unseen* 

The  brightest  sanctities  of  highest  souls 
Have  blossomed  into  beauty  in  the  dark. 

How  extremes  meet  I the  very  darkest  crimes 
That  blight  the  souls  of  men  are  strangely  born 
Beneath  che  shadows  of  the  holy  night. 

(315i 


316 


God  in  the  Night. 


Deep  in  the  dark  I hear  His  holy  feet — 

Around  Him  rustle  archangelic  wings; 

He  lingers  by  the  temple  where  His  Christ 
Is  watching  in  His  Eucharistic  sleep; 

And  where  poor  hearts  in  sorrow  cannot  rest. 
He  lingers  there  to  soothe  their  weariness. 
Where  mothers  weep  above  the  dying  child, 

He  stays  to  bless  the  mother’s  bitter  tears, 

And  consecrates  the  cradle  of  her  child. 

Which  is  to  her  her  spirit’s  awful  cross. 

He  shudders  past  the  haunts  of  sin — ^yet  leaves 
E’er  there  a mercy  for  the  wayward  hearts. 

Still  as  a shadow  through  the  night  He  moves, 
With  hands  all  full  of  blessings,  and  with  heart 
All  full  of  everlasting  love;  ah!  me. 

How  God  does  love  this  poor  and  sinful  , world  I 


The  stars  behold  Him  as  He  passes  on. 

And  arch  His  path  of  mercy  with  their  rays; 

The  stars  are  grateful — He  gave  them  their  light, 
And  now  they  give  Him  back  the  light  He  gave. 
The  shadows  tremble  in  adoring  awe; 

They  feel  His  presence,  and  they  know  His  face. 
The  shadows,  too,  are  grateful — could  they  pray. 
How  they  would  flower  all  His  way  with  prayers ! 


Ood  in  the  Night, 


317 


The  sleeping  trees  wake  up  from  all  their  dreams — 
Were  their  leaves  lips,  ah!  me,  how  they  would  sing 
A grand  Magnificat,  as  His  Mary  sang. 

The  lowly  grasses  and  the  fair-faced  fiowers 
Watch  their  Creator  as  He  passes  on, 

And  mourn  they  have  no  hearts  to  love  their  God, 
And  sigh  they  have  no  souls  to  be  beloved. 

Man — only  man — the  image  of  his  God- 
Let’s  God  pass  by  when  He  walks  forth  at  night. 


POETS. 


Poets  are  strange — not  always  understood 
By  many  is  their  gift, 

Which  is  for  evil  or  for  mighty  good — 

To  lower  or  to  lift. 

Upon  their  spirits  there  hath  come  a breath  j 
Who  reads  their  verse 
Will  rise  to  higher  life,  or  taste  of  death 
In  blessing  or  in  curse. 

The  Poet  is  great  Nature’s  own  high  priest. 
Ordained  from  very  birth 
To  keep  for  hearts  an  everlasting  feast — 

To  bless  or  curse  the  earth. 

They  cannot  help  but  sing;  they  know  not  why 
Their  thoughts  rush  into  song. 

And  float  above  the  world,  beneath  the  sky. 

For  right  or  for  the  wrong. 


(318) 


Poets. 


319 


They  are  like  angels — ^but  some  angels  fell. 
While  some  did  keep  their  place; 

Their  poems  are  the  gates  of  heaven  or  hell. 
And  God’s  or  Satan’s  face 


Looks  thro’  their  ev’ry  word  into  yonr  face. 
In  blessing  or  in  blight, 

And  leaves  upon  your  soul  a grace  or  trace 
Of  sunlight  or  of  night. 


They  move  along  life’s  uttermost  extremes. 

Unlike  all  other  men; 

And  in  their  spirits’  depths  sleep  strangest  dream.s. 
Like  shadows  in  a glen. 


They  all  are  dreamers;  in  the  day  and  night 
Ever  across  their  souls 
The  wondrous  mystery  of  the  dark  or  bright 
In  mystic  rhythm  rolls. 


They  live  within  themselves — they  may  not  tell 
AVhat  lieth  deepest  there; 

Within  their  breast  a heaven  or  a hell, 

Joy  or  tormenting  care. 


320 


Poets. 


They  are  the  loneliest  men  that  walk  men^s  ways, 
No  matter  what  they  seem; 

The  stars  and  sunlight  of  their  nights  and  days 
Move  over  them  in  dream. 


They  breathe  it  forth — ^their  very  spirits^  breath— 
To  bless  the  world  or  blight; 

To  bring  to  men  a higher  life  or  death; 

To  give  them  light  or  night. 


The  words  of  some  command  the  world^s  acclaim, 
And  never  pass  away. 

While  others^  words  receive  no  palm  from  fame. 
And  live  but  for  a day. 


But,  live  or  die,  their  words  leave  their  impress 
Fore’er  or  for  an  hour, 

And  mark  men’s  souls — some  more  and  some  the  less—* 
With  good’s  or  evil’s  power. 


A LEGEND. 


He  walked  alone  beside  the  lonely  sea, 

The  slanting  sunbeams  fell  upon  His  face. 

His  shadow  fluttered  on  the  pure  white  sands 
Like  the  weary  wing  of  a soundless  prayer. 

And  He  was,  oh!  so  beautiful  and  fair! 

Brown  sandals  on  His  feet — His  face  downcast, 

As  if  He  loved  the  earth  more  than  the  heavens. 

His  face  looked  like  His  Mother’s — only  her’s 
Had  not  those  strange  serenities  and  stirs 
That  paled  or  flushed  His  olive  cheeks  and  brow. 

He  wore  the  seamless  robe  His  Mother  made — 

And  as  He  gathered  it  about  His  breast, 

The  wavelets  heard  a sweet  and  gentle  voice 
Murmur,  ^^Oh!  My  Mother” — the  white  sands  felt 
The  touch  of  tender  tears  He  wept  the  while. 

He  walked  beside  the  sea;  He  took  His  sandals  off 
To  bathe  His  weary  feet  in  the  pure  cool  wave — • 

For  He  had  walked  across  the  desert  sands 

All  day  long — and  as  He  bathed  Ilis  feet 

He  murmured  to  Himself,  ‘‘Three  years!  three  yearsl 


(32X) 


322 


A Legend. 


And  then,  poor  feet,  the  cruel  nails  will  come 
And  make  you  bleed;  but,  ah!  that  blood  shall  lave 
All  weary  feet  on  all  their  thorny  ways/’ 

“Three  years!  three  years!”  He  murmured  still  again, 
“Ah!  would  it  were  to-morrow,  but  a will — 

My  Father’s  will— biddeth  Me  bide  that  time.” 

A little  fisher-boy  came  up  the  shore 
And  saw  Him— and,  nor  bold,  nor  shy, 

Approached,  but  when  he  saw  the  weary  face. 

Said  mournfully  to  Him:  “You  look  a-tired.” 

He  placed  His  hand  upon  the  boy’s  brown  brow 
Caressingly  and  blessingly — and  said: 

“I  am  so  tired  to  wait.”  The  boy  spake  not. 

Sudden,  a sea-bird,  driven  by  a storm 
That  had  been  sweeping  on  the  farther  shore. 

Came  fluttering  towards  Him,  and,  panting,  fell 
At  His  feet  and  died;  and  then  the  boy  said: 

“Poor  little  bird,”  in  such  a piteous  tone; 

He  took  the  bird  and  laid  it  in  His  hand. 

And  breathed  on  it — when  to  his  amaze 
The  little  fisher-boy  beheld  the  bird 
Flutter  a moment  and  then  fly  aloft — 

Its  little  life  returned;  and  then  he  gazed 
With  look  intensest  on  the  wondrous  face 
(Ah!  it  was  beautiful  and  fair) — and  said: 

“Thou  art  so  sweet  I wish  Thou  wert  my  God.’* 


A Legend. 


323 


He  leaned  down  towards  tlie  boy  and  softly  said: 

am  thy  Christ.”  The  day  they  followed  Him, 
With  cross  upon  His  shoulders,  to  His  death. 
Within  the  shadow  of  a sheltMng  rock 
That  little  boy  knelt  down,  and  there  adored. 
While  others  cursed,  the  thorn-crowned  Crucified. 


THOUGHTS. 


Bt  sound  of  name,  and  touch  of  hand, 
Thro’  ears  that  hear,  and  eyes  that  s\ 
We  know  each  other  in  this  land. 

How  little  must  that  knowledge  be) 


How  souls  are  all  the  time  alone. 

No  spirit  can  another  reach; 

They  hide  away  in  realms  unknown. 
Like  waves  that  never  touch  a beack 


We  never  know  each  other  here. 
No  soul  can  here  another  see— 
To  know,  we  need  a light  as  clear 
As  that  which  fills  eternity* 


For  here  we  walk  by  human  light. 

But  there  the  light  of  God  is  ouri , 
Each  day,  on  earth,  is  but  a night; 
Heaven  alone  hath  clear-faced  houm* 

(824) 


Thoughts. 


325 


I call  you  thus — ^you  call  me  thus— 

Our  mortal  is  the  very  bar 
That  parts  forever  each  of  us. 

As  skies,  on  high,  part  star  from  star* 


A name  is  nothing  but  a name 

Por  that  which,  else,  would  nameless  be; 
Until  our  souls,  in  rapture,  claim 
Full  knowledge  in  eternify. 


LINES. 


The  world  is  sweet,  and  fair,  and  bright, 
And  joy  aboundeth  everywhere. 

The  glorious  stars  crown  every  night. 

And  thro’  the  dark  of  ev’ry  care 
Above  us  shineth  heaven’s  light. 

If  from  the  cradle  to  the  grave 
We  reckon  all  our  days  and  hours 
We  sure  will  find  they  give  and  gave 
Much  less  of  thorns  and  more  of  flowers 
And  tho’  some  tears  must  ever  lave 


The  path  we  tread,  upon  them  all 
The  light  of  smiles  forever  lies. 

As  o’er  the  rains,  from  clouds  that  fall. 
The  sun  shines  sweeter  in  the  skies. 
Life  holdeth  more  of  sweet  than  gall 

(326> 


Lmes. 


327 


For  ev’ry  one:  no  matter  who — 

Or  what  their  lot — or  high  or  low; 

All  hearts  have  clouds — but  heaven’s  blue 
Wraps  robes  of  bright  around  each  woe; 
And  this  is  truest  of  the  true: 


That  joy  is  stronger  here  than  grief. 
Fills  more  of  life,  far  more  of  years. 
And  makes  the  reign  of  sorrow  brief; 

Gives  more  of  smiles  for  less  of  tears. 
Joy  is  life’s  tree — ^grief  but  its  leaf. 


0.  8.  A. 


Do  we  weep  for  the  heroes  who  died  for  ns, 
Who  living  were  true  and  tried  for  us. 

And  dying  sleep  side  by  side  for  us; 

The  Martyr-band 
That  hallowed  our  land 
With  the  blood  they  shed  in  a tide  for  us? 

Ah!  fearless  on  many  a day  for  us 
They  stood  in  front  of  the  fray  for  us. 

And  held  the  foeman  at  bay  for  us; 

And  tears  should  fall 
Forever  o’er  all 

Who  fell  while  wearing  the  Gray  for  us. 

How  many  a glorious  name  for  us. 

How  many  a story  of  fame  for  us 
They  left:  Would  it  not  be  a blame  for  us 
If  their  memories  part 
From  our  land  and  heart, 

And  a wrong  to  them,  and  shame  for  us? 


a s.  A. 


329 


No,  no,  no,  they  were  brave  for  us. 

And  bright  were  the  lives  they  gave  for  us; 

The  land  they  struggled  to  save  for  us 
Will  not  forget 
Its  warriors  yet 

Who  sleep  in  so  many  a grave  for  us. 

On  many  and  many  a plain  for  us 
Their  blood  poured  down  all  in  vain  for  us, 

Eed,  rich,  and  pure,  like  a rain  for  us; 

They  bleed — we  weep, 

We  live — they  sleep, 

‘All  lost,^^  the  only  refrain  for  us. 

But  their  memories  e^er  shall  remain  for  us, 

And  their  names,  bright  names,  without  stain  for  us; 
The  glory  they  won  shall  not  wane  for  us. 

In  legend  and  lay 
Our  heroes  in  Gray 
Shall  forever  live  over  again  for  us. 


THE  SEEN  AND  THE  UNSEEN. 


Natuke  is  but  the  outward  vestibule 
Which  God  has  placed  before  an  unseen  shrine^, 
The  Visible  is  but  a fair,  bright  vale 
That  winds  around  the  great  Invisible; 

The  Finite — it  is  nothing  but  a smile 
That  flashes  from  the  face  of  Inflnite; 

A smile  with  shadows  on  it — and  Tis  sad 
Men  bask  beneath  the  smile,  but  oft  forget 
The  loving  Face  that  very  smile  conceals. 

The  Changeable  is  but  the  broidered  robe 
Enwrapped  about  the  great  Unchangeable; 

The  Audible  is  but  an  echo,  faint. 

Low  whispered  from  the  far  Inaudible; 

This  earth  is  but  an  humble  acolyte 
A kneeling  on  the  lowest  altar-step 
Of  this  creation’s  temple,  at  the  Mass 
Of  Supernature,  just  to  ring  the  bell 
At  Sanctus!  Sanctus!  Sanctus!  while  the  world 
Prepares  its  heart  for  consecration’s  hour. 


The  Seen  and  the  Unseen. 


331 


Nature  is  but  the  ever-rustling  veil 
Which  God  is  wearing,  like  the  Carmelite 
Who  hides  her  face  behind  her  virgin-veil 
To  keep  it  all  unseen  from  mortal  eyes, 

Yet  by  her  vigils  and  her  holy  prayers, 

^nd  ceaseless  sacrifices  night  and  day. 

Shields  souls  from  sin — and  many  hearts  from  harm, 

God  hides  in  nature  as  a thought  doth  hide 
In  humbly-sounding  words;  and  as  the  thought 
Beats  through  the  lowly  word  like  pulse  of  heart 
That  giveth  life  and  keepeth  life  alive. 

So  God,  thro’  nature,  works  on  ev’ry  soul; 

For  nature  is  His  word  so  strangely  writ 
In  heav’n,  in  all  the  letters  of  the  stars. 

Beneath  the  stars  in  alphabets  of  clouds. 

And  on  the  seas  in  syllables  of  waves. 

And  in  the  earth,  on  all  the  leaves  of  fiowers. 

And  on  the  grasses  and  the  stately  trees. 

And  on  the  rivers  and  the  mournful  rocks 
Th^  word  is  clearly  written;  blest  are  they 
Who  read  the  word  aright — and  understand. 

For  God  is  everywhere — and  He  doth  find 
In  every  atom  which  His  hand  hath  made 
A shrine  to  hide  His  presence,  and  reveal 
His  name,  love,  power,  to  those  who  kneel 


332 


The  Seen  and  the  Unseen. 


In  holy  faith  upon  this  bright  below 
And  lift  their  eyes,  thro’  all  this  mystery, 

To  catch  the  vision  of  the  great  beyond. 

Yea!  nature  is  His  shadow,  and  how  bright 
Must  that  face  be  which  such  a shadow  casts? 
We  walk  within  it,  for  ‘^we  live  and  move 
And  have  our  being”  in  His  everywhere. 

Why  is  God  shy?  Why  doth  He  hide  Himself? 
The  tiniest  grain  of  sand  on  ocean’s  shore 
Entemples  Him;  the  fragrance  of  the  rose 
Folds  Him  around  as  blessed  incense  folds 
The  altars  of  His  Christ:  yet  some  will  walk 
Along  the  temple’s  wondrous  vestibule 
And  look  on  and  admire — yet  enter  not 
To  find  within  the  Presence,  and  the  Light 
Which  sheds  its  rays  on  all  that  is  without. 

And  nature  is  His  voice;  who  list  may  he^r 
His  name  low-murmured  every — everywhere. 

In  song  of  birds,  in  rustle  of  the  flowers. 

In  swaying  of  the  trees,  and  on  the  seas 
The  blue  lips  of  the  wavelets  tell  the  ships 
That  come  and  go.  His  holy,  holy  name. 

The  winds,  or  still  or  stormy,  breathe  the  same; 
And  some  have  ears  and  yet  they  will  not  hear 
The  soundless  voice  re-echoed  everywhere; 


The  Seen  and  the  Unseen. 


333 


And  some  have  hearts  that  never  are  enthrilled 
By  all  the  grand  Hosannahs  nature  sings. 

List!  Sanctus!  Sanctus!  Sanctus!  without  pause 
Sounds  sweetly  out  of  all  creation’s  heart, 

That  hearts  with  power  to  love  may  echo  back 
Their  Sanctus!  Sanctus!  Sanctus!  to  the  hymn. 


PASSING  AWAY. 


Lifers  Vesper-bells  are  ringing 
In  the  temple  of  my  heart. 

And  yon  sunset,  sure,  is  singing 
*^Nunc  dimittis — Now  depart  1^^ 
Ah  I the  eye  is  golden-clouded, 
But  to-morrow’s  sun  shall  shine 
On  this  weary  body  shrouded; 

But  my  soul  doth  not  repine. 


^‘Let  me  see  the  sun  descending, 

I will  see  his  light  no  more. 

For  my  life,  this  eve,  is  ending; 

And  to-morrow  on  the  shore 
That  is  fair,  and  white,  and  golden, 
I will  meet  my  God;  and  ye 
Will  forget  not  all  the  olden. 

Happy  hours  ye  spent  with  me. 


Passing  Away, 


335 


am  glad  that  I am  going; 

What  a strange  and  sweet  delight 
Is  thro’  all  my  being  flowing 
When  I know  that,  sure,  to-night 
I will  pass  from  earth  and  meet  Him 
Whom  I loved  thro’  all  the  years. 
Who  will  crown  me  when  I greet  Him, 
And  will  kiss  away  my  tears. 

^‘My  last  sunl  haste  I hurry  westward! 
In  the  dark  of  this  to-night 
My  poor  soul  that  hastens  rest-ward 
^With  the  Lamb’  will  find  the  light; 
Death  is  coming — and  I hear  him. 

Soft  and  stealthy  cometh  he; 

But  I do  not  believe  I fear  him, 

God  is  now  so  close  to  me.” 

S|c  ♦ ♦ :|e  4c  He  4B 

Fell  the  daylight’s  fading  glimmer 
On  a face  so  wan  and  white; 

Brighter  was  his  soul,  while  dimmer 
Grew  the  shadows  of  the  night; 

And  he  died — and  God  was  near  him; 

I knelt  by  him  to  forgive; 

And  I sometimes  seem  to  hear  him 
Whisper — ^‘Live  as  I did  live.’^ 


THE  PILGRIM. 


A CHRISTMAS  LEGEND  FOR  CHILDREN. 


The  shades  of  night  were  brooding 
O’er  the  sea,  the  earth,  the  sky; 
The  passing  winds  were  wailing 
In  a low,  unearthly  sigh; 

The  darkness  gathered  deeper. 

For  no  starry  light  was  shed, 

And  silence  reigned  unbroken. 

As  the  silence  of  the  dead. 


The  wintry  clouds  were  hanging 
From  the  starless  sky  so  low, 
While  ’neath  them  earth  lay  folded 
In  a winding  shroud  of  snow. 
’Twas  cold,  ’twas  dark,  ’twas  dreary, 
And  the  blast  that  swept  along 
The  mountains  hoarsely  murmured 
A fierce,  discordant  song. 


The  Pilgrim. 


337 


And  mortal  men  were  resting 
From  the  turmoil  of  the  day, 
And  broken  hearts  were  dreaming 
Of  the  friends  long  passed  away; 
And  saintly  men  were  keeping 
Their  vigils  through  the  night. 
While  angel  spirits  hovered  near 
Around  their  lonely  light. 


And  wicked  men  were  sinning 
In  the  midnight  banquet  halls, 
Forgetful  of  that  sentence  traced 
On  proud  Belshazzar’s  walls. 

On  that  night,  so  dark  and  dismal, 
TJnillumed  by  faintest  ray. 

Might  be  seen  the  lonely  pilgrim 
Wending  on  his  darksome  way. 

Slow  his  steps,  for  he  was  weary. 

And  betimes  he  paused  to  rest ; 
Then  he  rose,  and,  pressing  onward. 
Murmured  lowly:  must  haste.’’ 

In  his  hand  he  held  a chaplet. 

And  his  lips  were  moved  in  prayer. 
For  the  darkness  and  the  silence 
Seemed  to  whisper  God  was  there. 


338 


The  Pilgrim. 


On  the  lonely  pilgrim  journeyed, 
Nought  disturbed  him  on  his  way, 
And  his  prayers  he  softly  murmured 
As  the  midnight  stole  away. 

Hark!  amid  the  stillness  rises 
On  his  ears  a distant  strain 
Softly  sounding — now  it  ceases— 
Sweetly  now  it  comes  again. 


In  his  path  he  paused  to  wonder 
While  he  listened  to  the  sound: 

On  it  came,  so  sweet,  so  pensive, 

’Mid  the  blast  that  howled  around; 

And  the  restless  winds  seemed  soothed 
By  that  music,  gentle,  mild. 

And  they  slept,  as  when  a mother 
Eocks  to  rest  her  cradled  child. 

Strange  and  sweet  the  calm  that  followed, 
Stealing  through  the  midnight  air; 

Strange  and  sweet  the  sounds  that  floated 
Like  an  angel  breathing  there. 

From  the  sky  the  clouds  were  drifting 
Swiftly  one  by  one  away. 

And  the  sinless  stars  were  shedding 
Here  and  there  a silver  ray. 


The  Pilgrim^ 


339 


^‘Why  this  change?”  the  pilgrim  whispered — 
Whence  that  music?  whence  its  power? 
Earthly  sounds  are  not  so  lovely! 

Angels  love  the  midnight  hour!” 

Bending  o’er  his  staff,  he  wondered. 

Loath  to  leave  that  sacred  place: 
must  hasten,”  said  he,  sadly — 

On  he  pressed  with  quickened  pace. 


Just  before  him  rose  a mountain, 

Dark  its  outline,  steep  its  side — 

Down  its  slopes  that  midnight  music 
Seemed  so  soothingly  to  glide. 

‘‘I  will  find  it,”  said  the  pilgrim, 

^‘Though  this  mountain  I must  scale”— 
Scarcely  said,  when  on  his  vision 
Shone  a distant  light,  and  pale. 


Glad  he  was;  and  now  he  hastened — 
Brighter,  brighter  grew  the  ray — 
Stronger,  stronger  swelled  the  music 
As  he  struggled  on  his  way. 

Soon  he  gained  the  mountain  summit, 
Lo!  a church  bursts  on  his  view: 
From  the  church  that  light  was  fiowing. 
And  that  gentle  music,  too. 


340 


The  Pilgrim. 


Near  he  came — its  door  stood  open — 
Still  he  stood  in  awe  and  fear; 
"Shall  I enter  spot  so  holy? 

Am  I unforbidden  here? 

I will  enter — something  bids  me — 
Saintly  men  are  praying  here; 
Vigils  sacred  they  are  keeping, 

’Tis  their  Matin  song  I hear/' 


Softly,  noiselessly,  he  glided 
Through  the  portal ; on  his  sight 
Shone  a vision,  bright,  strange,  thrilling; 

Down  he  knelt — ’twas  Christmas  night — 
Down,  in  deepest  adoration. 

Knelt  the  lonely  pilgrim  there; 

Joy  unearthly,  rapture  holy. 

Blended  with  his  whispered  prayer. 


Wrapped  his  senses  were  in  wonder, 
On  his  soul  an  awe  profound. 

As  the  vision  burst  upon  him, 

’Mid  sweet  light  and  sweeter  sound. 
"Is  it  real?  is  it  earthly? 

Is  it  all  a fleeting  dream? 

Hark!  those  choral  voices  ringing, 
Lo!  those  forms  like  angels  seem.'' 


The  Pilgrim. 


341 


On  his  view  there  rose  an  altar. 
Glittering  ’mid  a thousand  beams, 
Flowing  from  the  burning  tapers 
In  bright,  sparkling,  silver  streams. 
From  unnumbered  crystal  vases 

Kose  and  bloomed  the  fairest  flowers. 
Shedding  ’round  their  balmy  fragranc«< 
’Mid  the  lights  in  sweetest  showers. 


Eich  and  gorgeous  was  the  altar. 
Decked  it  was  in  purest  white. 
Mortal  hands  had  not  arrayed  it 
Thus,  upon  that  Christmas  night. 
Amid  its  lights  and  lovely  flowers. 
The  little  tabernacle  stood; 
Around  it  all  was  rich  and  golden. 
It  alone  was  poor  and  rude. 


Hark!  Venite  Adoremus! 

Round  the  golden  altar  sounds— 

See  that  band  of  angels  kneeling 
Prostrate,  with  their  sparkling  crowns  I 
And  the  pilgrim  looked  and  listened. 

And  he  saw  the  angels  there. 

And  their  snow-white  wings  were  folded. 
As  they  bent  in  silent  prayer. 


342 


The  Pilgrim. 


Twelve  they  were;  bright  rays  of  glory 
Bound  their  brows  effulgent  shone; 
But  a wreath  of  nobler  beauty 
Seemed  to  grace  and  circle  one; 

And  he,  beauteous,  rose  and  opened 
Wide  the  tabernacle  door: 

Hark!  Venite  Adoremus 
Eises — ^bending,  they  adora 


Lol  a sound  of  censers  swingingl 
Clouds  of  incense  weave  around 
The  altar  rich  a silver  mantle. 

As  the  angels’  hymns  resound. 

List!  Venite  Adoremus 
Swells  aloud  in  stronger  strain. 

And  the  angels  swing  the  censers. 

And  they  prostrate  bend  again. 

Eising  now,  with  voice  of  rapture. 

Bursts  aloud,  in  thrilling  tone, 

‘‘Gloria  in  Excelsis  Deo” 

Bound  the  sacramental  throne. 

Oh ! ’twas  sweet,  ’twas  sweet  and  charming 
As  the  notes  triumphant  flowed! 

Oh!  ’twas  sweet,  while  wreathes  of  incense 
Curled,  and  countless  tapers  glowed. 


The  Pilgrim. 


343 


Oh  I ^twas  grand!  that  hymn  of  glory 
Earthly  sounds  cannot  compare; 

Oh!  ^twas  grand!  it  breath’d  of  heaven. 
As  the  angels  sung  it  there. 

Ravished  by  the  strains  ecstatic. 
Raptured  by  the  vision  grand. 

Gazed  the  pilgrim  on  the  altar, 

Gazed  upon  the  angel  band. 


All  was  hushed!  the  floating  echoes 
Of  the  hymn  had  died  away; 
Vanished  were  the  clouds  of  incense. 
And  the  censers  ceased  to  sway. 

Lo!  their  wings  are  gently  waving; 

And  the  angels  softly  rise, 

Bending  towards  the  tabernacle. 
Worship  beaming  from  their  eyes. 


One  last,  lowly  genuflection  I 
From  their  brows  love  burning  shone — 
Ah!  they’re  going,  they’ve  departed. 

All  but  one,  the  brightest  one. 

‘‘Why  remains  he?”  thought  the  pilgrim. 
Ah!  he  rises  beau teously — 

“Listen!”  and  the  angel  murmured 
Sweetly:  “Pilgrim,  hail  to  theeP^ 


344 


The  Pilgrim. 


^^Come  unto  the  golden  altar, 

I’m  an  angel — ^banish  fear — • 

Come,  unite  in  adoration 
With  me,  for  our  God  is  here. 

Come  thy  Jesus  here  reposes. 

Come!  He’ll  bless  thy  mortal  sight— 
Come!  adore  the  Infant  Saviour 
With  me — for  ’tis  Christmas  night." 


Now  approached  the  pilgrim,  trembling. 
Now  beside  the  angel  bent. 

And  the  deepest,  blissful  gladness, 

With  his  fervent  worship  blent. 

« Pilgrim,”  said  the  spirit,  softly, 

^^Thou  hast  seen  bright  angels  here. 
And  hast  heard  our  sacred  anthems. 
Filled  with  rapture,  filled  with  fear. 


^We  are  twelve — ^’twas  we  who  chanted 
First  the  Saviour’s  lowly  birth. 

We  who  brought  the  joyful  tidings 
Of  His  coming,  to  the  earth ; 

We  who  sung  unto  the  shepherds. 
Watching  on  the  mountain  highly 
That  the  Word  was  made  Incarnate 
For  them  on  that  blessed  night 


The  Pilgrim. 


345 


" And  since  then  we  love  to  linger 
On  that  festal  night  on  earth ; 

And  we  leave  our  thrones  of  glory 
Here  to  keep  the  Saviour’s  birth. 
Happy  mortals!  happy  mortals! 

To-night  the  angels  would  be  men ; 
And  they  leave  their  thrones  in  HeaveH, 
For  the  Crib  of  Bethlehem.” 


And  the  angel  led  the  pilgrim 
To  the  tabernacle  door ; 

Lo ! an  Infant  there  was  sleeping. 
And  the  angel  said:  ^^Adorel 
He  is  sleeping,  yet  he  watches. 

See  that  beam  of  love  divine; 
Pilgrim  I pay  your  worship  holy 
To  your  Infant  God  and  mine.” 


And  the  spirit  slowly,  slowly. 
Closed  the  tabernacle  door. 

While  the  pilgrim  lowly,  lowly. 
Bent  in  rapture  to  adore. 

**  Pilgrim,”  spoke  the  angel  sweetly, 

I must  bid  thee  my  adieu ; 
Love!  oh!  love  the  Infant  Jesus  I— 
And  he  vanished  from  his  view* 


346 


The  Pilgrim. 


« ♦ * 4c  « « « 

All  was  silent — silent — silent— 
Faded  was  the  vision  bright— 

But  the  pilgrim  long  remembered 
In  his  heart  that  Christmas  night 


A nETETtm 


Those  hearts  of  ours — how  strange  I how  strange  1 
How  they  yearn  to  ramble  and  love  to  range 
Down  through  the  vales  of  the  years  long  gone. 
Up  through  the  future  that  fast  rolls  on. 

To-days  are  dull — so  they  wend  their  ways 
Back  to  their  beautiful  yesterdays; 

The  present  is  blank — so  they  wing  their  flight 
To  future  to-morrows  where  all  seems  bright. 


Build  them  a bright  and  beautiful  home. 
They’ll  soon  grow  weary  and  want  to  roam; 
Find  them  a spot  without  sorrow  or  pain, 
They  may  stay  a day,  but  they’re  off  again. 


Those  hearts  of  ours — how  wild  I how  wild! 

They’re  as  hard  to  tame  as  an  Indian  child; 

They’re  as  restless  as  waves  on  the  sounding  sea, 

Like  the  breeze  and  the  bird  are  they  fickle  and  free, 

(94T) 


348 


A Reverie. 


Those  hearts  of  ours — how  lone!  how  lone  I 
Ever,  forever,  they  mourn  and  moan; 

Let  them  revel  in  joy,  let  them  riot  in  cheer; 
The  revelry  o’er,  they’re  all  the  more  drear. 


Those  hearts  of  ours — how  warm!  how  warm! 

Like  the  sun’s  bright  rays,  like  the  Summer’s  charm, 
How  they  beam  and  burn ! how  they  gleam  and  glow 
Their  flash  and  flame  hide  but  ashes  below. 


Those  hearts  of  ours — how  cold!  how  cold  I 
Like  December’s  snow  on  the  waste  or  wold ; 
And  though  our  Decembers  melt  soon  into  May, 
Hearts  know  Decembers  that  pass  not  away. 


Those  hearts  of  ours — how  deep!  how  deep  I 
You  may  sound  the  sea  where  the  corals  sleep, 
Where  never  a billow  hath  rumbled  or  rolled — 
Depths  still  the  deeper  our  hearts  hide  and  hold. 


Where  the  wild  storm’s  tramp  hath  ne’er  been  known 
The  wrecks  of  the  sea  lie  low  and  lone; 

Thus  the  heart’s  surface  may  sparkle  and  glow. 
There  are  wrecks  far  down — there  are  graves  below. 


A Reverie. 


349 


Those  hearts  of  ours — ^but,  after  all, 

How  shallow  and  narrow,  how  tiny  and  small; 
Like  scantiest  streamlet  or  Summer^s  least  rill. 
They’re  as  easy  to  empty — as  easy  to  filL 


One  hour  of  storm  and  how  the  streams  pourl 
One  hour  of  sun  and  the  streams  are  no  more; 
One  little  grief — how  the  tears  gush  and  glidel 
One  smile — ^flow  they  ever  so  fast,  they  are  dried. 


Those  hearts  of  ours — how  wise  I how  wisel 

They  can  lift  their  thoughts  till  they  touch  the  skies; 

They  can  sink  their  shafts,  like  a miner  hold. 

Where  wisdom’s  mines  hide  their  pearls  and  gold. 


Aloft  they  soar  with  undazzled  gaze. 

Where  the  halls  of  the  Day-King  burn  and  blaze; 
Or  they  fly  with  a wing  that  will  never  fail. 

O’er  the  sky’s  dark  sea  where  the  star-ships  sail. 


Those  hearts  of  ours — what  fools!  what  fools! 

How  they  laugh  at  wisdom,  her  cant  and  rules! 

How  they  waste  their  powers,  and,  when  wasted,  grieve 
For  what  they  have  squandered,  but  cannot  retrieve. 


350 


A Reverie. 


Those  hearts  of  ours — ^how  strong!  how  strong! 
Let  a thousand  sorrows  around  them  throng. 
They  can  bear  them  all,  and  a thousand  more. 
And  they’re  stronger  then  than  they  were  befora 


Those  hearts  of  ours — how  weak!  how  weak! 
But  a single  word  of  unkindness  speak. 

Like  a poisoned  shaft,  like  a viper’s  fang. 
That  one  slight  word  leaves  a life-long  pang. 


Those  hearts  of  ours — but  Fve  said  enough, 

As  I find  that  my  rhyme  grows  rude  and  rough; 
I’ll  rest  me  now,  but  I’ll  come  again 
Some  other  day,  to  resume  my  strain. 


THEIR  STORY  RUNNETH  THUS. 


Two  little  children  played  among  the  flowers, 

Their  mothers  were  of  kin,  tho’  far  apart; 

The  children’s  ages  were  the  very  same 

E’en  to  an  hour — and  Ethel  was  her  name, 

A fair,  sweet  girl,  with  great,  brown,  wond’ring  eyes 
/ 

That  seemed  to  listen  just  as  if  they  held 
The  gift  of  hearing  with  the  power  of  sight. 

Six  Summers  slept  upon  her  low  white  brow. 

And  dreamed  amid  the  roses  of  her  cheeks. 

Her  voice  was  sweetly  low;  and  when  she  spoke 
Her  words  were  music;  and  her  laughter  rang 
So  like  an  altar-bell  that,  had  you  heard 
Its  silvery  sound  a-ringing,  you  would  think 
Of  kneeling  down  and  worshiping  the  pure. 

They  played  among  the  roses — it  was  May — 

And  ^^hide  and  seek,”  and  ^^seek  and  hide,”  all  eve 
They  played  together  till  the  sun  went  down. 

Earth  held  no  happier  hearts  than  theirs  that  day : 
And  tired  at  last  she  plucked  a crimson  rose 
And  gave  to  him,  her  playmate,  cousin-kin; 

(361) 


352 


Their  Story  Runneth  Thus. 


And  he  went  thro’  the  garden  till  he  found 
The  whitest  rose  of  all  the  roses  there, 

And  placed  it  in  her  long,  brown,  waving  hair. 

I give  you  red — and  you — you  give  me  white : 

What  is  the  meaning?”  said  she,  while  a smile, 

As  radiant  as  the  light  of  angel’s  wings, 

Swept  bright  across  her  face;  the  while  her  eyes 
Seemed  infinite  purities  half  asleep 
In  sweetest  pearls;  and  he  did  make  reply: 

Sweet  Ethel ! white  dies  first ; you  know,  the  snow, 
(And  it  is  not  as  white  as  thy  pure  face) 

Melts  soon  away;  but  roses  red  as  mine 

Will  bloom  when  all  the  snow  hath  passed  away.” 


She  sighed  a little  sigh,  then  laughed  again. 

And  hand  in  hand  they  walked  the  winding  ways 
Of  that  fair  garden  till  they  reached  her  home. 

A good-bye  and  a kiss — and  he  was  gone. 


She  leaned  her  head  upon  her  mother’s  breast. 
And  ere  she  fell  asleep  she,  sighing,  called: 
^‘Does  white  die  first?  my  mother!  and  does  red 
Live  longer  ? ” And  her  mother  wondered  much 
At  such  strange  speech.  She  fell  asleep 
With  murmurs  on  her  lips  of  red  and  white. 


Their  Story  Runneth  Thus. 


353 


Those  children  loved  as  only  children  can — 

With  nothing  in  their  love  save  their  whole  selves. 
When  in  their  cradles  they  had  been  betroth’d ; 
They  knew  it  in  a manner  vague  and  dim — • 
Unconscious  yet  of  what  betrothal  meant. 


The  boy — she  called  him  Merlin — a love  name— 
(And  he — he  called  her  always  Ullainee, 

No  matter  why);  the  boy  was  full  of  moods. 

Upon  his  soul  and  face  the  dark  and  bright 
Were  strangely  intermingled.  Hours  would  pass 
Eippling  with  his  bright  prattle;  and  then,  hours 
Would  come  and  go,  and  never  hear  a word 
Fall  from  his  lips,  and  never  see  a smile 
Upon  his  face.  He  was  so  like  a cloud 
With  ever-changeful  hues,  as  she  was  like 
A golden  sunbeam  shining  on  its  face. 

Ten  years  passed  on.  They  parted  and  they  met 
Not  often  in  each  year;  yet  as  they  grew 
In  years,  a consciousness  unto  them  came 
Of  human  love. 

But  it  was  sweet  and  pure. 

There  was  no  passion  in  it.  Eeverence, 

Like  Guardian-Angel,  watched  o’er  Innocence. 


354 


Their  Story  Runneth  Thus. 


One  night  in  mid  of  May  their  faces  met 
As  pure  as  all  the  stars  that  gazed  on  them. 

They  met  to  part  from  themselves  and  the  world; 
Their  hearts  just  touched  to  separate  and  bleed; 
Their  eyes  were  linked  in  look,  while  saddest  tears 
Fell  down,  like  rain,  upon  the  cheeks  of  each: 

They  were  to  meet  no  more. 

Their  hands  were  clasped 
To  tear  the  clasp  in  twain;  and  all  the  stars 
Looked  proudly  down  on  them,  while  shadows  knelt^ 
Or  seemed  to  kneel,  around  them  with  the  awe 
Evoked  from  any  heart  by  sacrifice. 

And  in  the  heart  of  that  last  parting  hour 
Eternity  was  beating.  And  he  said: 

We  part  to  go  to  Calvary  and  to  God — 

This  is  our  garden  of  Gethsemane; 

And  here  we  bow  our  heads  and  breathe  His  prayer 
Whose  heart  was  bleeding,  while  the  angels  heard: 
Not  my  will.  Father  I but  Thine  own  be  done.’^ 


Eaptures  meet  agonies  in  such  heart-hours; 
Gladness  doth  often  fling  her  bright,  warm  arms 
Around  the  cold,  white  neck  of  grief — and  thus 
The  while  they  parted — sorrow  swept  their  hearts 
Like  a great,  dark  stormy  sea — but  sudden 
A joy,  like  sunshine — did  it  come  from  God? — 


One  night  in  raid  of  May  their  faces  met, 

As  pure  as  all  the  stars  that  gazed  on  them ; 

They  met  to  part  from  themselves  and  the  world, 
Their  hearts  just  touched  to  separate  and  bleed. 


• Thew  Story  Runneth  Thus. 


355 


Flung  over  every  wave  that  swept  o’er  them 

A more  than  golden  glory. 

/ Merlin  said: 

if  . A 

‘^Our  loves  must  soar  aloft  to  spheres  divine; 

The  human  satisfies  nor  you  nor  me, 

(No  human  love  shall  ever  satisfy — 

Or  ever  did — the  hearts  that  lean  on  it); 

You  sigh  for  something  higher  as  do  I, 

So  let  our  spirits  he  espoused  in  God, 

And  let  our  wedlock  he  as  soul  to  soul; 

And  prayer  shall  he  the  golden  marriage  ring^ 

And  God  will  hless  us  both.” 

She  sweetly  said: 

^^Your  words  are  echoes  of  my  own  soul’s  thoughts; 

Let  God’s  own  heart  he  our  own  holy  home. 

And  let  us  live  as  only  angels  live; 

And  let  us  love  as  our  own  angels  love. 

’Tis  hard  to  part — ^hut  it  is  better  so — 

God’s  will  is  ours,  and — Merlin  I let  us  go.*^ 


w 


And  then  she  sobbed  as  if  her  hear.t  would  break — • 
Perhaps  it  did;  an  awful  minute  passed. 

Long  as  an  age  and  briefer  than  a flash 
Of  lightning  in  the  skies.  No  word  was  said — 
Only  a look  which  never  was  forgot. 

Between  them  fell  the  shadows  of  the  night 


356 


Their  Story  Runneth  Thus. 


Their  faces  went  away  into  the  dark, 

And  never  met  again;  and  yet  their  souls 
Were  twined  together  in  the  heart  of  Christ, 

And  Ethel  went  from  earthland  long  ago; 

Bu:  Merlin  stays  still  hanging  on  his  cross. 

He  would  not  move  a nail  that  nails  him  there, 

He  would  not  pluck  a thorn  that  crowns  him  there. 
He  hung  himself  upon  the  blessed  cross 
With  Ethel;  she  has  gone  to  wear  the  crown 
That  wreathes  the  brows  of  virgins  who  have  kept 
Their  bodies  with  their  souls  from  earthly  taint. 

And  years  and  years,  and  weary  years,  passed  on 
Into  the  past.  One  Autumn  afternoon. 

When  flowers  were  in  their  agony  of  death, 

And  winds  sang  ^^De  Profundis’’  over  them, 

And  skies  were  sad  with  shadows,  he  did  walk 
Where,  in  a resting-place  as  calm  as  sweet. 

The  dead  were  lying  down;  the  Autumn  sun. 

Was  half  way  down  the  west;  the  hour  was  three — 
The  holiest  hour  of  all  the  twenty-four, 

Eor  Jesus  leaned  His  head  on  it,  and  died. 

He  walked  alone  amid  the  virgins’  graves 
Where  virgins  slept;  a convent  stood  near  by. 

And  from  the  solitary  cells  of  nuns 
Unto  the  cells  of  death  the  way  v/as  short. 


Their  Story  Runneth  Thus. 


357 


Low,  simple  stones  and  white  watched  o’er  each  grave. 
While  in  the  hollows  ’tween  them  sweet  flowers  grew. 
Entwining  grave  and  grave.  He  read  the  names 
Engraven  on  the  stones,  and  ^^Eest  in  peace” 

Was  written  ’neath  them  all,  and  o’er  each  nam^ 

A cross  was  graven  on  the  lowly  stone. 

He  passed  each  grave  with  reverential  awe. 

As  if  he  passed  an  altar,  where  the  Host 
Had  left  a memory  of  its  sacrifice. 

And  o’er  the  buried  virgins’  virgin  dust 
He  walked  as  prayerfully  as  tho’  he  trod 
The  holy  floor  of  fair  Loretta’s  shrine. 

He  passed  from  grave  to  grave,  and  read  the  names 
Of  those  whose  own  pure  lips  had  changed  the  names 
By  which  this  world  had  known  them  into  names 
Of  t^acrifice  known  only  to  their  God; 

Veiling  their  faces  they  had  veiled  their  names; 

The  very  ones  who  played  with  them  as  girls. 

Had  they  passed  there,  would  know  no  more  than  he 
Or  any  stranger  where  their  playmates  slept; 

And  then  he  wondered  all  about  their  lives,  their  hearts, 
Their  thoughts,  their  feelings,  and  their  dreams. 

Their  joys  and  sorrows,  and  their  smiles  and  tears. 

He  wondered  at  the  stories  that  were  hid 
Forever  down  within  those  simple  graves. 


358 


Their  Story  Runneth  Thus. 


In  a lone  corner  of  that  resting-place 
Uprose  a low  white  slab  that  marked  a grave 
Apart  from  all  the  others;  long,  sad  grass 
Drooped  o’er  the  little  mound,  and  mantled  it 
With  veil  of  purest  green;  around  the  slab 
The  whitest  of  white  roses  ’twined  their  arms— 
Koses  cold  as  the  snows  and  pure  as  songs 
Of  angels — and  the  pale  leaflets  and  thorns 
Hid  e’en  the  very  name  of  her  who  slept 
Beneath.  He  walked  on  to  the  grave,  but  when 
He  reached  its  side  a spell  fell  on  his  heart 
So  suddenly — he  knew  not  why — and  tears 
Went  up  into  his  eyes  and  trickled  down 
Upon  the  grass;  he  was  as  strangely  moved 
As  if  he  met  a long-gone  face  he  loved. 

I believe  he  prayed.  He  lifted  then  the  leaves 
That  hid  the  name;  but  as  he  did,  the  thorns 
Did  pierce  his  hand,  and  io!  amazed,  he  read 
The  very  word — the  very,  very  name 
He  gave  the  girl  in  golden  days  before — 
^^Ullaii^ee.” 

He  sat  beside  that  lonely  grave  for  long. 

He  took  its  grasses  in  his  trembling  hand. 

He  toyed  with  them  and  wet  them  with  his  tears. 

He  read  the  name  again  and  still  again. 

He  thought  a thousand  thoughts,  and  then  he  thought 
It  all  might  be  a dream — then  rubbed  his  eyes 


Their  Story  Runneth  Thus. 


359 


And  read  the  name  again  to  be  more  sure; 

Then  wondered  and  then  wept — then  asked  himself: 
^^What  means  it  all?  Can  this  be  EtheTs  grave? 

I dreamed  her  soul  had  fled. 

Was  she  the  white  dove  that  I saw  in  dream 
Fly  o’er  the  sleeping  sea  so  long  ago?’’ 

The  convent  bell 

Eang  sweet  upon  the  breeze,  and  answered  him 
His  question.  And  he  rose  and  went  his  way 
Unto  the  convent  gate;  long  shadows  marked 
One  hour  before  the  sunset,  and  the  birds 
Were  singing  Vespers  in  the  convent  trees. 

As  silent  as  a star-gleam  came  a nun 
In  answer  to  his  summons  at  the  gate; 

Her  face  was  like  the  picture  of  a saint, 

Or  like  an  angel’s  smile;  her  downcast  eyes 

Were  like  a half-closed  tabernacle,  where 

God’s  presence  glowed;  her  lips  were  pale  and  worn 

By  ceaseless  prayer;  and  when  she  sweetly  spoke, 

And  bade  him  enter,  ’twas  in  such  a tone 

As  only  voices  own  which  day  and  night 

Sing  hymns  to  God. 

She  locked  the  massive  gate. 

He  followed  her  along  a flower-fringed  walk 
That,  gently  rising,  led  up  to  the  home 


360 


Their  Story  Runneth  Thus. 


Of  virgin  hearts.  The  very  flowers  that  bloomed 
Within  the  place,  in  beds  of  sacred  shapes, 

(For  they  had  fashioned  them  with  holy  care, 

Into  all  holy  forms — a chalice,  a cross. 

And  sacred  hearts — and  many  saintly  names. 

That,  when  their  eyes  would  fall  upon  the  flowers. 
Their  souls  might  feast  upon  some  mystic  sign), 
Were  fairer  far  within  the  convent  walls. 

And  purer  in  their  fragrance  and  their  bloom 
Than  all  their  sisters  in  the  outer  world. 

He  went  into  a wide  and  humble  room — 

The  floor  was  painted,  and  upon  the  walls, 

In  humble  frames,  most  holy  paintings  hung; 
Jesus  and  Mary  and  many  an  olden  saint 
Were  there.  And  she,  the  veil -clad  Sister,  spoke: 
^H’ll  call  the  Mother,’’  and  she  bowed  and  went. 

He  waited  in  the  wide  and  humble  room. 

The  only  room  in  that  unworldly  place 

This  world  could  enter;  and  the  pictures  looked 

Upon  his  face  and  down  into  his  soul. 

And  strangely  stirred  him.  On  the  mantle  stood 
A crucifix,  the  figured  Christ  of  which 
Did  seem  to  suffer;  and  he  rose  to  look 
More  nearly  on  it;  but  he  shrank  in  awe 
When  he  beheld  a something  in  its  face 
Like  his  own  face. 


Their  Story  Runneth  Thus. 


361 


But  more  amazed  he  grew,  when,  at  the  foot 
Of  that  strange  crucifix  he  read  the  name — 
^'Ullaikee/^ 

A whirl  of  thought  swept  o’er  his  startled  soul — 
When  to  the  door  he  heard  a footstep  come. 

And  then  a voice — the  Mother  of  the  nuns  \ 
Had  entered — and  in  calmest  tone  began: 

^Forgive,  kind  sir,  my  stay;  our  Matin  song 
Had  not  yet  ended  when  you  came;  our  rule 
Forbids  our  leaving  choir;  this  my  excuse.” 

She  bent  her  head — the  rustle  of  her  veil 
Was  like  the  trembling  of  an  angel’s  wing. 

Her  voice’s  tone  as  sweet.  She  turned  to  him 
And  seemed  to  ask  him  with  her  still,  calm  look 
What  brought  him  there,  and  waited  his  reply. 

H am  a stranger.  Sister,  hither  come,” 

He  said,  ^^upon  an  errand  still  more  strange; 

But  thou  wilt  pardon  me  and  bid  me  go 
If  what  I crave  you  cannot  rightly  grant; 

I would  not  dare  intrude,  nor  claim  your  time, 
Save  that  a friendship,  deep  as  death,  and  strong 
As  life,  has  brought  me  to  this  holy  place.” 

He  paused.  She  looked  at  him  an  instant,  bent 
Her  lustrous  eyes  upon  the  floor,  but  gave 
Him  no  reply,  save  that  her  very  look 
Encouraged  him  to  speak,  and  he  went  on: 


362 


Their  Story  Runneth  Thus. 


He  told  her  Ethel’s  story  from  the  first, 

He  told  her  of  the  day  amid  the  fiowers. 

When  they  were  only  six  sweet  summers  old; 

He  told  her  of  the  night  when  all  the  fiowers, 

A listening,  heard  the  words  or  sacrifice — 

He  told  her  all;  then  said:  saw  a stone 

In  yonder  graveyard  where  your  Sisters  sleep. 

And  writ  on  it,  all  hid  by  roses  white, 

I saw  a name  I never  ought  forget.” 

She  wore  a startled  look,  but  soon  repressed 
The  wonder  that  had  come  into  her  face. 

Whose  name?”  she  calmly  spoke.  But  when  he  said 
^‘Ullaikee,” 

She  forward  bent  her  face  and  pierced  his  own 
With  look  intensest;  and  he  thought  he  heard 
The  trembling  of  her  veil,  as  if  the  brow 
It  mantled  throbbed  with  many  thrilling  thoughts. 
But  quickly  rose  she,  and,  in  hurried  tone, 

Spoke  thus;  ^^’Tis  hour  of  sunset,  ’tis  our  rule 
To  close  the  gates  to  all  till  to-morrow’s  morn. 
Eeturn  to-morrow;  then,  if  so  God  wills. 

I’ll  see  you.” 


He  gave  many  thanks,  passed  out 
From  that  unworldly  place  into  the  world. 
Straight  to  the  lonely  graveyard  went  his  steps — 


Their  Story  Runneth  Thus. 


363 


Swift  to  the  White-Eose-Grave/^  his  heart:  he  knelt 
Upon  its  grass  and  prayed  that  God  might  will 
The  mystery’s  solution;  then  he  took, 

Where  it  was  drooping  on  the  slab,  a rose. 

The  whiteness  of  whose  leaves  was  like  the  foam 
Of  summer  waves  upon  a summer  sea. 

Then  thro’  the  night  he  went 
And  reached  his  room,  where,  weary  of  his  thoughts, 
Sleep  came,  and  coming  found  the  dew  of  tears 
Undried  within  his  eyes,  and  flung  her  veil 
Around  him.  Then  he  dreamt  a strange,  weird  dream. 
A rock,  dark  waves,  white  roses  and  a grave. 

And  cloistered  flowers,  and  cloistered  nuns,  and  tears 
That  shone  like  jewels  on  a diadem. 

And  two  great  angels  with  such  shining  wings — 

All  these  and  more  were  in  most  curious  way 
Blended  in  one  dream  or  many  dreams.  Then 
He  woke  wearier  in  his  mind.  Then  slept 
Again  and  had  another  dreanu 
His  dream  ran  thus — 

(He  told  me  all  of  it  many  years  ago. 

But  I forgot  the  most.  I remember  this) : 

A dove,  whiter  than  whiteness’  very  self. 

Fluttered  thro’  his  sleep  in  vision  or  dream,* 

Bearing  in  its  flight  a spotless  rose.  It 
Flew  away  across  great,  long  distances. 


364 


Their  Story  Runneth  Thus. 


Thro^  forests  where  the  trees  were  all  in  dream. 

And  over  wastes  where  silences  held  reign, 

And  down  pure  valleys,  till  it  reached  a shore 
By  which  blushed  a sea  in  the  evening  sun ; 

The  dove  rested  there  awhile,  rose  again 
And  flew  across  the  sea  into  the  sun; 

And  then  from  near  or  far  (he  could  not  say) 

Came  sound  as  faint  as  echo’s  own  echo — 

A low  sweet  hymn  it  seemed — and  now 

And  then  he  heard,  or  else  he  thought  he  heard. 

As  if  it  were  the  hymn’s  refrain,  the  words: 

White  dies  first  I”  White  dies  first.” 

The  sun  had  passed  his  noon  and  Westward  sloped; 
He  hurried  to  the  cloister  and  was  told 
The  Mother  waited  him.  He  entered  in. 

Into  the  wide  and  pictured  room,  and  there 
The  Mother  sat  and  gave  him  welcome  twice. 

prayed  last  night,”  she  spoke,  ^^to  know  God’s  will; 
I prayed  to  Holy  Mary  and  the  saints 
That  they  might  pray  for  me,  and  I might  know 
My  conduct  in  the  matter.  Now,  kind  sir. 

What  wouldst  thou  ? Tell  thy  errand.”  Ho  replied. 
“ It  was  not  idle  curiosity 
That  brought  me  hither  or  that  prompts  my  lips 
To  ask  the  story  of  the  ^White-Kose-Grave,’ 

To  seek  the  story  of  the  sleeper  there 


Their  Story  Runneth  Thus. 


365 


Whose  name  I knew  so  long  and  far  away. 

Who  was  she,  pray  ? Dost  deem  it  right  to  tell 
There  was  a pause  before  the  answer  came, 

As  if  there  was  a comfort  in  her  heart. 

There  was  a tremor  in  her  voice  when  she 
Unclosed  two  palest  lips,  and  spoke  in  tone 
Of  whisper  more  than  word: 

‘^She  was  a child 

Of  lofty  gift  and  grace  who  fills  that  grave, 

And  who  has  filled  it  long — and  yet  it  seems 

To  me  but  one  short  hour  ago  we  laid 

Her  body  there.  Her  mem’ry  clings  around 

Our  hearts,  our  cloisters,  fresh,  and  fair,  and  swe^^ 

We  often  look  for  her  in  places  where 

Her  face  was  wont  to  be : among  the  flowers, 

In  chapel,  underneath  those  trees.  Long  years 
Have  passed  and  mouldered  her  pure  face,  and  ye 
It  seems  to  hover  here  and  haunt  us  all. 

I cannot  tell  you  all.  It  is  enough 
To  see  one  ray  of  light  for  us  to  judge 
The  glory  of  the  sun;  it  is  enough 
To  catch  one  glimpse  of  heaven’s  blue 
For  us  to  know  the  beauty  of  the  sky. 

It  is  enough  to  tell  a little  part 

Of  her  most  holy  life,  that  you  may  know 

The  hidden  grace  and  splendor  of  the  whole,’^ 


366 


Their  Story  Runneth  Thus. 


‘‘if  ay,  nay,”  he  interrupted  her;  “all!  all  I 
Thou’lt  tell  me  all,  kind  Mother.” 

She  went  on, 

Unheeding  his  abruptness: 

“ One  sweet  day — 

A feast  of  Holy  Virgin,  in  the  month 
Of  May,  at  early  morn,  ere  yet  the  dew 
Had  passed  from  off  the  flowers  and  grass — ere  yet 
Our  nuns  had  come  from  holy  Mass — there  came. 
With  summons  quick,  unto  our  convent  gate 
A fair  young  girl.  Her  feet  were  wet  with  dew — 
Another  dew  was  moist  within  her  eyes — 

Her  large,  brown,  wond’ring  eyes.  She  asked  for  me; 
And  as  I went  she  rushed  into  my  arms — 

Like  weary  bird  into  the  leaf-roofed  branch 
That  sheltered  it  from  storm.  She  sobbed  and  sobbed 
Until  I thought  her  very  soul  would  rush 
From  her  frail  body,  in  a sob,  to  God. 

I let  her  sob  her  sorrow  all  away. 

My  words  were  waiting  for  a calm.  Her  sobs 
Sank  into  sighs — and  they  too  sank  and  died 
In  faintest  breath.  I bore  her  to  a seat 
In  this  same  room — and  gently  spoke  to  her. 

And  held  her  hand  in  mine — and  soothed  her 
With  words  of  sympathy,  until  she  seemed 
As  tranquil  as  myself 


— ■ Their  Story  Rmineth  Thus. 


367 


^^And  then  I asked: 

^What  brought  thee  hither,  child?  andwhat  wilt  thou?’ 
‘Mother!’  she  said,  ‘wilt  let  me  wear  the  veil? 

Wilt  let  me  serve  my  God  as  e’en  you  serve 
Him  in  this  cloistered  place  ? I pray  to  be — 
Unworthy  tho’  I be — to  be  His  spouse. 

Hay,  Mother — say  not  nay — ’twill  break  a heart 
Already  broken ; ’ and  she  looked  on  me 
With  those  brown,  wond’ring  eyes, which  pleaded  more^ 
More  strongly  and  more  sadly  than  her  lips 
That  I might  grant  her  sudden,  strange  request. 
^Hast  thou  a mother?’  questioned  I.  ‘I  had,’ 

She  said,  ‘but  heaven  has  her  now;  and  thou 
Wilt  be  my  mother — and  the  orphan  girl 
Will  make  her  life  her  thanks.’ 

‘Thy  father,  child?’ 

‘Ere  I was  cradled  he  was  in  his  grave.’ 

‘And  hast  nor  sister  nor  brother?’  ‘Ho,’  she  said, 
‘God  gave  my  mother  only  me;  one  year 
This  very  day  He  parted  us.’  ‘ Poor  child,’ 

I murmured.  ^Hay,  kind  Sister,’  she  replied, 

‘I  have  much  wealth— they  left  me  ample  means — 

I have  true  friends  who  love  me  and  protect. 

I was  a minor  until  yesterday; 

But  yesterday  all  guardianship  did  cease. 

And  I am  mistress  of  myself  and  all 


368 


Their  Story  Runneth  Thus. 


My  worldly  means — and,  Sister,  they  are  thine 
If  thou  but  take  myself — nay — don’t  refuse.’ 

‘Nay — nay — my  child!’  I said;  ‘the  only  wealth 
We  wish  for  is  the  wealth  of  soul — of  grace. 

Not  all  your  gold  could  unlock  yonder  gate. 

Or  buy  a single  thread  of  virgin’s  veiL 
Not  all  the  coins  in  coffers  of  a king 
Could  bribe  an  entrance  here  for  any  one. 

God’s  voice  alone  can  claim  a cell — a veil, 

For  any  one  He  sends. 

Who  sent  you  here. 

My  child?  Thyself?  Or  did  some  holy  one 
Direct  thy  steps?  Or  else  some  sudden  grief? 

Or,  mayhap,  disappointment?  Or,  perhaps, 

A sickly  weariness  of  that  bright  world 
Hath  cloyed  thy  spirit  ? Tell  me,  which  it  is.^ 
‘Neither,’  she  quickly,  almost  proudly  spoke. 

‘Who  sent  you,  then?’ 

‘A  youthful  Christ,’  she  said, 

‘ Who,  had  he  lived  in  those  far  days  of  Christ, 

Would  have  been  His  belov’d  Disciple,  sure — 

Would  have  been  His^ own  gentle  John;  and  would 
Have  leaned  on  Thursday  night  upon  His  breast. 
And  stood  on  Friday  eve  beneath  His  cross 
To  take  His  Mother  from  Him  when  He  died. 

He  sent  me  here — he  said  the  word  last  night 


Their  Story  Runneth  Thus.  369 


In  my  own  garden;  this  the  word  he  said — 

Oh!  had  you  heard  him  whisper:  Ethel,  dear! 

Your  heart  was  born  with  veil  of  virgin  on; 

I hear  it  rustle  every  time  we  meet, 

In  all  your  words  and  smiles;  and  when  you  weep 
I hear  it  rustle  more.  Go — wear  your  veil — 

And  outward  be  what  inwardly  thou  art. 

And  hast  been  from  the  first.  And,  Ethel,  list: 

My  heart  was  born  with  priestly  vestments  on. 

And  at  Dream- Altars  I have  ofttimes  stood, 

And  said  such  s weet  Dream-Masses  in  my  sleep — 
And  when  I lifted  up  a white  Dream-Host, 

A silver  Dream-Bell  rang — and  angels  knelt, 

Or  seemed  to  kneel,  in  worship.  Ethel,  say — 

Thou  wouldst  not  take  the  vestments  from  my  heart 
Nor  more  than  I would  tear  the  veil  from  thine. 

My  vested  and  thy  veiled  heart  part  to-night 
To  climb  our  Calvary  and  to  meet  in  God; 

And  this,  fair  Ethel,  is  Gethsemane — 

And  He  is  here,  who,  in  that  other,  bled; 

And  they  are  here  who  came  to  comfort  Him — 

His  angels  and  our  own;  and  His  great  prayer, 

Ethel,  is  ours  to-night — let’s  say  it,  then : 

Father!  Thy  will  be  done!  Go  find  your  veil 
And  I my  vestments.”  He  did  send  me  here/ 


370 


Their  Story  Runneth  Thus. 


^‘She  paused — a few  stray  tears  had  dropped  upoi 
Her  closing  words  and  softened  them  to  sighs. 

I listened,  inward  moved,  but  outward  calm  and  cold, 
To  the  girl’s  strange  story.  Then,  smiling,  said : 

‘I  see  it  is  a love-tale  after  all, 

With  much  of  folly  and  some  of  fact  in  it; 

It  is  a heart  affair,  and  in  such  things 
There’s  little  logic,  and  there’s  less  of  sense. 

You  brought  your  heart,  dear  child,  but  left  your  head 
Outside  the  gates;  nay,  go,  and  find  the  head 
You  lost  last  night — and  then,  I am  quite  sure, 
You’ll  not  be  anxious  to  confine  your  heart 
Within  this  .cloistered  place.’ 

She  seemed  to  wince 

Beneath  my  words  one  moment — then  replied: 

^If  e’en  a wounded  heart  did  bring  me  here. 

Dost  thou  do  well.  Sister,  to  wound  it  more? 

If  merely  warmth  of  feelings  urged  me  here. 

Dost  thou  do  well  to  chill  them  into  ice  ? 

And  were  I disappointed  in  yon  world. 

Should  that  debar  me  from  a purer  place? 

You  say  it  is  a love-tale — so  it  is ; 

The  vase  was  human — but  the  flower  divine; 

And  if  I break  the  vase  with  my  own  hands. 

Will  you  forbid  that  I should  humbly  ask 
The  heart  of  God  to  be  my  lily’s  vase? 


Their  Story  Runneth  Thus. 


371 


Fd  trust  my  lily  to  no  heart  on  earth 
Save  his  who  yesternight  did  send  me  here 
To  dip  it  in  the  very  blood  of  Christ, 

And  plant  it  here/ 

And  then  she  sobbed  outright 
A long,  deep  sob. 

I gently  said  to  her: 

‘Nay,  child,  I spoke  to  test  thee — do  not  weep. 

If  thou  art  called  of  God,  thou  yet  shalt  come 
And  find  e’en  here  a home.  But  God  is  slow 
In  all  His  works  and  ways,  and  slower  still 
When  He  would  deck  a bride  to  grace  His  Court. 
Go,  now,  and  in  one  year — if  thou  dost  come 
Thy  veil  and  cell  shall  be  prepared  for  thee; 

Nay — urge  me  not — it  is  our  holy  rule — 

A year  of  trial ! I must  to  choir,  and  thou 
Into  the  world  to  watch  and  wait  and  pray 
Until  the  Bridegroom  comes/ 

She  rose  and  went 
Without  a word. 

“And  twelvemonth  after  came. 
True  to  the  very  day  and  hour,  and  said: 

‘Wilt  keep  thy  prOpiise  made  one  year  ago? 

Where  is  my  cellAand  where  my  virgin’s  veil  ? 
Wilt  try  me  more?\  Wilt  send  me  back  again? 


372 


Their  Story  Runneth  Thus, 


I came  once  with  my  wealth  and  was  refused  : 
And  now  I come  as  poor  as  Holy  Christ 
Who  had  no  place  to  rest  His  weary  head — 

My  wealth  is  gone;  I offered  it  to  him 
Who  sent  me  here;  he  sent  me  speedy  word 
“ Give  all  unto  the  poor  in  quiet  way — 

And  hide  the  giving — ere  you  give  yourself 
To  God!  ^ Wilt  take  me  now  for  my  own  sake? 
I bring  my  soul — Tis  little  worth  I ween, 

And  yet  it  cost  sweet  Christ  a priceless  price/ 

^My  child/  I said,  ‘thrice  welcome — enter  here; 

A few  short  days  of  silence  and  of  prayer. 

And  thou  shalt  be  the  Holy  Bridegroon/s  bride. 

“Her  novice  days  went  on;  much  sickness  fell 
Upon  her.  Oft  she  lay  for  weary  weeks 
In  awful  agonies,  and  no  one  heard 
A murmur  from  her  lips.  She  oft  would  smile 
A sunny,  playful  smile,  that  she  might  hide 
Her  sufferings  from  us  all.  Whea  she  was  well 
She  was  the  first  to  meet  the  hour  of  prayer — 

The  last  to  leave  it — and  they  ns^med  her  well : 

The  ‘Angel  of  the  Cloister.^  Once  I heard 
The  Father  of  our  souls  say  when  she  passed 
‘Beneath  that  veil  of  sacrificial  black 
She  wears  the  white  robe  of  ler  innocence.^ 


Their  Story  Runneth  Thus. 


373 


And  we — we  believed  it.  There  are  Sisters  here 
Of  three-score  years  of  service  who  would  say: 
^Within  our  memory  never  moved  a veil 
That  hid  so  saintly  and  so  pure  a heart.’ 

And  we — we  felt  it,  and  we  loved  her  so, 

We  treated  her  as  angel  and  as  child. 

I never  heard  her  speak  about  the  past, 

I never  heard  her  mention  e’en  a name 
Of  any  in  the  world.  She  little  spake ; 

She  seemed  to  have  rapt  moments — then  she  grew 
Absent-minded,  and  would  come  and  ask  me 
To  walk  alone  and  say  her  Eosary 
Beneath  the  trees.  She  had  a voice  divine; 

And  when  she  sang  for  us,  in  truth  it  seemed 
The  very  heart  of  song  was  breaking  on  her  lips. 

The  dower  of  her  mind,  as  of  her  heart, 

Was  of  the  richest,  and  she  mastered  art 
By  instinct  more  than  study.  Her  weak  hands 
Moved  ceaselessly  amid  the  beautiful. 

There  is  a picture  hanging  in  our  choir 
She  painted.  I remember  well  the  morn 
She  came  to  me  and  told  me  she  had  dreamt 
A dream;  then  asked  me  would  I let  her  paint 
Her  dream.  I gave  permission.  Weeks  and  weeks 
Went  by,  and  ev’ry  spare  hour  of  the  day 
She  kept  her  cell  all  busy  with  her  work. 


374 


Their  Story  Runneth  Thus. 


At  last  ’twas  finished,  and  she  brought  it  forth— 

A picture  my  poor  words  may  not  portray. 

But  you  must  gaze  on  it  with  your  own  eyes. 

And  drink  its  magic  and  its  meanings  in; 
ril  show  it  thee,  kind  sir,  before  you  go. 

^^In  every  May  for  two  whole  days  she  kept 
Her  cell.  AVe  humored  her  in  that;  but  when 
The  days  had  passed,  and  she  came  forth  again, 

Her  face  was  tender  as  a lily’s  leaf, 

With  God’s  smile  on  it;  and  for  days  and  days 
Thereafter,  she  would  scarcely  ope  her  lips 
Save  when  in  prayer,  and  then  her  every  look 
Was  rapt,  as  if  her  soul  did  hold  with  God 
Strange  converse.  And,  who  knows?  mayhap  she  did 

half  forgot — on  yonder  mantlepiece 
You  see  that  wondrous  crucifix;  one  year 
She  spent  on  it,  and  begged  to  put  beneath 
That  most  mysterious  word — ^Ullainee.’ 

‘^At  last  the  cloister’s  angel  disappeared; 

Her  face  was  missed  at  choir,  her  voice  was  missed— 
Her  words  were  missed  where  every  day  we  met 
In  recreation’s  hour.  And  those  who  passed 
The  angel’s  cell  would  lightly  tread,  and  breathe 
A prayer  that  death  might  pass  the  angel  by 


Save  when  in  prayer,  and  then  her  every  look  was  rapt 
As  if  her  soul  did  hold  with  God  strange  converse. 


Their  Story  Runneth  Thus. 


375 


And  let  her  longer  stay,  for  she  lay  ill — 

Her  frail,  pure  life  was  ebbing  fast  away. 

Ah!  many  were  the  orisons  that  rose 

From  all  our  hearts  that  God  might  spare  her  still; 

At  Benediction  and  at  holy  Mass 

Our  hands  were  lifted,  and  strong  pleadings  went 

To  heaven  for  her ; we  did  love  her  so — 

Perhaps  too  much  we  loved  her,  and  perhaps 

Our  love  was  far  too  human.  Slow  and  slow 

She  faded  like  a flower.  And  slow  and  slow 

Her  pale  cheeks  whitened  more.  And  slow  and  slow 

Her  large,  brown,  wondering  eyes  sank  deep  and  dim. 

Hope  died  in  all  our  faces;  but  on  her’s 

Another  and  a different  hope  did  shine, 

And  from  her  wasted  lips  sweet  prayers  arose 
That  made  her  watchers  weep.  Fast  came  the  end, 
Never  such  silence  o’er  the  cloister  hung — • 

We  walked  more  softly,  and,  whene’er  we  spoke. 

Our  voices  fell  to  whispers,  lest  a sound 
Might  jar  upon  her  ear.  The  Sisters  watched 
In  turns  beside  her  couch ; to  each  she  gave 
A gentle  word,  a smile,  a thankful  look. 

At  times  her  mind  did  wander;  no  wild  words 
Escaped  her  lips — she  seemed  to  float  away 
To  far-gone  days,  and  live  again  in  scenes 
Whose  hours  were  bright  and  happy.  In  her  sleep 


376 


Their  Story  Runneth  Thus. 


She  ofttimes  spoke  low,  gentle,  holy  words 

About  her  mother;  and  sometimes  she  sang 

The  fragments  of  sweet,  olden  songs — and  when 

She  woke  again,  she  timidly  would  ask 

If  she  had  spoken  in  her  sleep,  and  what 

She  said,  as  if,  indeed,  her  heart  did  fear 

That  sleep  might  open  there  some  long-closed  gate 

She  would  keep  locked.  And  softly  as  a cloud, 

A golden  cloud  upon  a summer’s  day, 

Floats  from  the  heart  of  land  out  o’er  the  sea, 

So  her  sweet  life  was  passing.  One  bright  eve, 

The  fourteenth  day  of  August,  when  the  sun 
Was  wrapping,  like  a king,  a purple  cloud 
Around  him  on  descending  day’s  bright  throne. 

She  sent  for  me  and  bade  me  come  in  haste. 

I went  into  her  cell.  There  was  a light 
Upon  her  face,  unearthly;  and  it  shone 
Like  gleam  of  star  upon  a dying  rose. 

I sat  beside  her  couch,  and  took  her  hand 
In  mine — a fair,  frail  hand  that  scarcely  seem’d 
Of  flesh — so  wasted,  white  and  wan  it  was. 

Her  great,  brown,  wond’ring  eyes  had  sunk  away 
Deep  in  their  sockets — and  their  light  shone  dim 
As  tapers  dying  on  an  altar.  Soft 
As  a dream  of  beauty  on  me  fell  low. 

Last  words* 


Their  Story  Runneth  . Thus. 


377 


^Mother,  the  tide  is  ebbing  fast; 
But  ere  it  leaves  this  shore  to  cross  the  deep 
And  seek  another,  calmer,  I would  say 
A few  last  words — and.  Mother,  I would  ask 
One  favor  more,  which  thou  wilt  not  refuse. 
Thou  wert  a mother  to  the  orphan  girl, 

Thou  gav’st  her  heart  a home,  her  love  a vase, 
Her  weariness  a rest,  her  sacrifice  a shine — 

And  thou  didst  love  me.  Mother,  as  she  loved 
Whom  I shall  meet  to-morrow,  far  away — 

But  no,  it  is  not  far — that  other  heav’n 
Touches  this,  Mother;  I have  felt  its  touch. 

And  now  I feel  its  clasp  upon  my  soul. 

Fm  going  from  this  heaven  into  that, 

To-morrow,  Mother.  Yes,  I dreamt  it  all. 

It  was  the  sunset  of  Our  Lady’s  feast. 

My  soul  passed  upwards  thro’  the  golden  clouds 
To  sing  the  second  vespers  of  the  day 
With  all  the  angels.  Mother,  ere  I go, 

Thou’lt  listen.  Mother  sweet,  to  my  last  words. 
Which,  like  all  last  words,  tell  whate’er  was  first 
In  life  or  tenderest  in  heart.  I came 
Unto  my  convent  cell  and  virgin  veil. 

Sent  by  a spirit  that  had  touched  my  own 
As  wings  of  angels  touch — to  fly  apart 
Upon  their  missions — till  they  meet  again 


378 


Their  Story  Runneth  Thus. 


In  heaven,  heart  to  heart,  wing  to  wing. 

The  ^‘Angel  of  the  Cloister”  you  called  me — 
Unworthy  sure  of  such  a beauteous  name — 

My  mission's  over — ^and  your  angel  goes 
To-morrow  home.  This  earthly  part  which  stays 
You’ll  lay  away  within  a simple  grave — 

But,  Mother,  on  its  slab  thou’lt  grave  this  name, 
•‘Ullaineel”  (she  spelt  the  letters  out). 

Nor  ask  me  why — tho’  if  thou  wilt  Fll  tell; 

It  is  my  soul-name,  given  long  ago 
By  one  who  found  it  in  some  Eastern  book. 

Or  dreamt  it  in  a dream,  and  gave  it  me — 

Nor  ever  told  the  meaning  of  the  name; 

And,  Mother,  should  he  ever  come  and  read 
That  name  upon  my  grave,  and  come  to  thee 
And  ask  the  tidings  of  ^^Ullainee,” 

Thou’lt  tell  him  all — and  watch  him  if  he  weeps; 
Show  him  the  crucifix  my  poor  nands  carved — 
Show  him  the  picture  in  the  chapel  choir— 

And  watch  him  if  he  weeps;  and  then 

There  are  three  humble  scrolls  in  yonder  drawer;’ 

(She  pointed  to  the  table  in  her  room) ; 

^Some  words  of  mine  and  words  of  his  are  there. 
And  keep  these  simple  scrolls  until  he  comes. 

And  put  them  in  his  hands;  and.  Mother,  watch — • 
Watch  him  if  he  weeps;  and  tell  him  this: 


Their  Story  Runneth  Thus. 


379 


I tasted  all  the  sweets  of  sacrifice, 

I kissed  my  cross  a thousand  times  a day, 

I hung  and  bled  upon  it  in  my  dreams, 

I lived  on  it — I loved  it  to  the  last/  And  then 
A low,  soft  sigh  crept  thro^  the  virgin’s  cell; 

I looked  upon  her  face,  and  death  was  there.” 
There  was  a pause — and  in  the  pause  one  wave 
Of  shining  tears  swept  thro’  the  Mother’s  eyes. 

‘^And  thus,”  she  said,  ^^our  angel  passed  away. 

We  buried  her,  and  at  her  last  request 
We  wrote  upon  the  slab,  ^Ullainee.’ 

And  I — (for  she  asked  me  one  day  thus. 

The  day  she  hung  her  picture  in  the  choir) — 

I planted  o’er  her  grave  a white  rose  tree. 

The  roses  crept  around  the  slab  and  hid 
The  graven  name — and  still  we  sometimes  cuU 
Her  sweet,  white  roses,  and  we  place  them  on 
Our  Chapel-Altar.” 

Then  the  Mother  rose. 

Without  another  word,  and  led  him  thro^ 

A long,  vast  hall,  then  up  a flight  of  stairs 
Unto  an  oaken  door,  which  turned  upon  ith  hinge 
Noiselessly — then  into  a Chapel  dim. 

On  gospel  side  of  which  there  was  a gate 
From  ceiling  down  to  floor,  and  back  of  that 
A long  and  narrow  choir,  with  many  stalls. 


380 


Their  J&tory  Runneth  Thus, 


Brown-oaken;  all  along  the  walls  were  hung 
Saint-pictures,  whose  sweet  faces  looked  upon 
The  faces  of  the  Sisters  in  their  prayers. 

Beside  a Mater  Dolorosa”  hung 
The  picture  of  the  ^^Angel  of  the  Choir." 

He  sees  it  now  thro’  vista  of  the  years, 

Which  stretch  between  him  and  that  long-gone  day, 
It  hangs  within  his  memory  as  fresh 
In  tint  and  touch  and  look  as  long  ago. 

There  was  a power  in  it,  as  if  the  soul 
Of  her  who  painted  it  had  shrined  in  it 
Its  very  self;  there  was  a spell  in  it 
That  fell  upon  his  spirit  thro’  his  eyes. 

And  made  him  dream  of  God’s  own  holy  heart. 

The  shadow  of  the  picture,  in  weak  words. 

Was  this,  or  something  very  like  to  this: 

A wild,  weird  wold. 

Just  like  the  desolation  of  a heart, 

Stretched  far  away  into  infinity ; 

Above  it  low,  gray  skies  drooped  sadly  down. 

As  if  they  fain  would  weep,  and  all  was  bare 
As  bleakness’  own  bleak  self;  a mountain  stood 
All  mantled  with  the  glory  of  a light 
That  flashed  from  out  the  heavens,  and  a cross 
With  such  a pale  Christ  hanging  in  its  arms 
Did  crown  the  mount;  and  either  side  the  cross 


Their  Story  Runneth  Thus. 


381 


There  were  two  crosses  lying  on  the  rocks — 

One  of  whitest  roses — Ullaikee 
Was  woven  into  it  with  buds  of  Bed; 

And  one  of  reddest  roses — Merlin’s  name 
Was  woven  into  it  with  buds  of  white. 

Below  the  cross  and  crosses  and  the  mount 
The  earth-place  lay  so  dark  and  bleak  and  drear; 
Above,  a golden  glory  seemed  to  hang 
Like  God’s  own  benediction  o’er  the  names. 

I saw  the  picture  once;  it  moved  me  so 
I ne’er  forgot  its  beauty  or  its  truth; 

But  words  as  weak  as  mine  can  never  paint 
That  Crucifixion’s  picture. 

Merlin  said  to  me : 

^‘Some  day — some  far-off  day — ^when  I am  dead, 
You  have  the  simple  rhymings  of  two  hearts. 
And  if  you  think  it  best,  the  world  may  know 
A love-tale  crowned  by  purest  SAcniFiCB.’^ 


NIGHT  AFTER  THE  PICNIO. 


And  Happy  I Happy  I Happy  I 
Eang  the  bells  of  all  the  hours; 

** Shyly!  Shyly!  Shyly !’^ 

Looked  and  listened  all  the  flowers; 
They  were  wakened  from  their  slumbers. 

By  the  footsteps  of  the  fair; 

And  they  smiled  in  their  awaking 
On  the  faces  gathered  there. 


^Brightly!  Brightly!  Brightly  I"" 
Looked  the  overhanging  trees. 

For  beneath  their  bending  branches 
Floated  tresses  in  the  breeze. 

And  they  wondered  who  had  wandered 
With  such  voices  and  so  gay ; 

And  their  leaflets’  seemed  to  whisper 
To  each  other:  ^^Who  are  they?” 


Night  After  the  Picnic* 


383 


They  were  just  like  little  children. 

Not  a sorrow’s  shade  was  there; 

And  Merry!  Merry!  Merry!” 

Eang  their  laughter  thro’  the  air. 

There  was  not  a brow  grief-darkened. 

Was  there  there  a heart  in  pain? 

But  Happy!  Happy!  Happy!” 

Came  the  happy  bells’  refrain. 

When  the  stately  trees  were  bending 
O’er  a simple,  quiet  home. 

That  looked  humble  as  an  altar. 

Nestling  ’neath  a lofty  dome; 

Thither  went  they  gayly!  gaylyl 
Where  their  coming  was  a joy. 

Just  to  pass  away  together 
One  long  day  without  alloy. 

Slowly!  Slowly!  Slowly  1*^ 

Melted  morning’s  mist  away, 

Till  the  sun,  in  all  its  splendor. 

Lit  the  borders  of  the  bay. 

« Gladly!  Gladly!  Gladly!” 

Glanced  the  waters  that  were  gray, 

While  the  wavelets  whispered  Welcome!” 
To  us  all  that  happy  day. 


384 


Night  After  the  Picnic. 


And  Happy!  Happy!  Happy!’’ 

Eang  a bell  in  every  heart, 

And  it  chimed,  ^^All  day  let  no  one. 
Think  that  ye  shall  ever  part. 

Go  and  sip  from  every  moment 
Sweets  to  perfume  many  years; 

Keep  your  feast,  and  be  too  happy 
To  have  thought  of  any  tears.” 

There  was  song  with  one’s  soul  in  it, 

And  the  happy  hearts  grew  still 
While  they  leaned  upon  the  music 
Like  fair  lily’s  o’er  the  rill; 

Till  the  notes  had  softly  floated 
Into  silent  seas  away 
O’er  the  wavelets,  where  they  listened 
While  they  rocked  upon  the  bay. 

And Dreamy  I Dreamy!  Dreamy!” 

When  the  song’s  sweet  life  was  o’er. 
Drooped  the  eyes  that  will  remember 
All  its  echoes  evermore. 

And ‘^Stilly!  Stilly!  Stilly!” 

Beat  the  hearts  of  some,  I ween. 

That  can  see  the  unseen  mystery 
Which  a song  may  strive  to  screen. 


Night  After  the  Picnic. 


385 


Then  ‘^Gayly!  Gayly!  Gayly!^^ 

Eang  the  laughter  everywhere, 

Prom  the  lips  that  seemed  too  lightsome 
For  the  sigh  of  any  care. 

And  the  dance  went  Merry!  Merry 
Whilst  the  feet  that  tripped  along. 
Bore  the  hearts  that  were  as  happy 
As  a wild  bird’s  happy  song. 

And  sweet  words  with  smiles  upon  them, 
Joy-winged,  flitted  to  and  fro, 

Flushing  every  face  they  met  with 
With  the  glory  of  their  glow. 

Not  a brow  with  cloud  upon  it — * 

Not  an  eye  that  seemed  to  know 
What  a tear  is;  not  a bosom 
That  had  ever  nursed  a woe. 

And  how  ‘^Swiftly!  Swiftly  I Swiftly 
Like  the  ripples  of  a stream. 

Did  the  bright  hours  chase  each  other. 
Till  it  all  seemed  like  a dream; 

Till  it  seemed  as  if  no  Never 
Ever  in  this  world  had  been. 

To  o’ercloud  the  brief  Forever, 

Shining  o’er  the  happy  scene. 


386 


Night  After  the  Picnic. 


Dimly!  dimly  fell  the  shadows 
Of  the  tranquil  eventide; 

But  the  sound  of  dance  and  laughter 
Would  not  die,  and  had  not  died; 

And  still  “Happy!  Happy!  Happy 
Bang  the  voiceless  vesper  bells 
O’er  the  hearts  that  were  too  happy 
To  remember  earth’s  farewells. 

Came  the  night  hours — faster!  faster  I 
Eose  the  laughter  and  the  dance. 

And  the  eyes  that  should  look  weary 
Shone  the  brighter  in  their  glance: 
And  they  stole  from  every  minute 
What  no  other  day  could  lend — 

They  were  happy!  happy!  happy  I 
But  the  feast  must  have  an  end. 

‘‘Children,  come!’’  the  words  were  cruel— 
’Twas  the  death  sigh  of  the  feast; 

And  they  came,  still  merry!  merry  I 
At  the  bidding  of  the  priest. 

Who  had  heard  the  joy-bells  ringing 
Bound  him  all  the  summer  day. 

“Happy!  Happy!  Happy!  Happy 
Did  he  hear  an  angel  say  ? 


Night  After  the  Picnic. 


387 


"Happy!  happy!  still  more  happy  I 
Yea,  the  happiest  are  they. 

I was  moving  ’mid  the  children 
By  the  borders  of  the  bay. 

And  I bring  to  God  no  record 
Of  a single  sin  this  day. 

"Happy!  Happy!  Happy !’^ 

When  your  life  seems  lone  and  long, 
You  will  hear  that  feast’s  bells  ringing 
Far  and  faintly  thro’  my  aong. 


LINES. 


The  death  of  men  is  not  the  death 
Of  rights  that  urged  them  to  the  fray; 
For  men  may  yield 
On  battle-field 

A noble  life  with  stainless  shield. 

And  swords  may  rust 
Above  their  dust, 

But  still,  and  still 
The  touch  and  thrill 
Of  freedom’s  vivifying  breath 

Will  nerve  a heart  and  rouse  a will 
In  some  hour,  in  the  days  to  be. 

To  win  back  triumphs  from  defeat; 

And  those  who  blame  us  then  will  greet 
Eight’s  glorious  eternity. 

For  right  lives  in  a thousand  things; 

Its  cradle  is  its  martyr’s  grave. 
Wherein  it  rests  awhile  until 

life  that  beroisroa  ^ave 

Will  rise  again,  at  God’s  own  wii\. 


Lines. 


389 


And  right  the  wrong, 

Which  long  and  long 
Did  reign  above  the  true  and  just; 

And  thro’  the  songs  the  poet  sings, 
Eight’s  vivifying  spirit  rings; 

Each  simple  rhyme 
Keeps  step  and  time 
With  those  who  marched  away  and  fell. 
And  all  his  lines 
Are  humble  shrines 
Where  love  of  right  will  love  to  dwell. 


DEATH  OF  THE  PRINCE  IMPERIAL. 


Waileth  a woman,  ^'0  my  God!’^ 

A breaking  heart  in  a broken  breath, 

A hopeless  cry  o’er  her  heart-hope’s  death! 

Can  words  catch  the  chords  of  the  winds  that  waJ, 
When  love’s  last  lily  lies  dead  in  the  vale  I 
Let  her  alone, 

Under  the  rod 
With  the  infinite  moaa 
Of  her  soul  for  God. 

Ah!  song!  you  may  echo  the  sound  of  pain. 

But  you  never  may  shrine. 

In  verse  or  line. 

The  pang  of  the  heart  that  breaks  in  twain. 


Waileth  a woman,  ^^0  my  God!” 
Wind-driven  waves  with  no  hearts  that  ache. 
Why  do  your  passionate  pulses  throb? 

No  lips  that  speak — have  ye  souls  that  sob? 


Death  of  the  Prince  Imperial. 


391 


We  carry  the  cross — ye  wear  the  crest, 

We  have  our  God — and  ye,  your  shore. 
Whither  ye  rush  in  the  storm  to  rest ; 

We  have  the  havens  of  holy  prayer — 

And  we  have  a hope — have  ye  despair? 

For  storm-rocked  waves  ye  break  evermore, 
Adown  the  shores  and  along  the  years. 

In  the  whitest  foam  of  the  saddest  tears. 

And  we,  as  ye,  0 waves,  gray  waves! 

Drift  over  a sea  more  deep  and  wide. 

For  we  have  sorrow  and  we  have  death. 

And  ye  have  only  the  tempest’s  breath; 

But  we  have  God  when  heart-oppressed. 

As  a calm  and  beautiful  shore  of  rest. 


0 waves!  sad  waves!  how  you  flowed  between 
The  crownless  Prince  and  the  exiled  Queen  I 


Waileth  a woman,  ‘^0  my  God!’* 

Her  hopes  are  withered,  her  heart  is  crushed. 
For  the  love  of  her  love  is  cold  and  dead. 

The  joy  of  her  joy  hath  forever  fled; 

A starless  and  pitiless  night  hath  rushed 
On  the  light  of  her  life — and  far  away 
In  an  Afric  wild  lies  her  poor  dead  child. 


392 


Death  of  the  Prince  Imperial. 


Lies  the  heart  of  her  heart — let  her  alone 
Under  the  rod 

With  her  infinite  moan, 

O my  God! 

He  was  beautiful,  pure,  and  brave. 

The  brightest  grace 
Of  a royal  race; 

Only  his  throne  is  but  a grave; 

Is  there  fate  in  fame  ? 

Is  there  doom  in  names? 

Ah!  what  did  the  cruel  Zulu  spears 
Care  for  the  prince  or  his  mother’s  tears  ? 
What  did  the  Zulu’s  ruthless  lance 
Care  for  the  hope  of  the  future  France? 


Crieth  the  Empress,  ^‘0  my  son!’^ 

He  was  her  own  and  her  only  one. 

She  had  nothing  to  give  him  but  her  love, 
’Twas  kingdom  enough  on  earth — above 
She  gave  him  an  infinite  faith  in  God; 

Let  her  cry  her  cry 
Over  her  own  and  only  one. 

All  the  glory  is  gone — is  gone. 

Into  her  broken-hearted  sigh# 


Death  of  the  Prince  Imperial. 


393 


Moaneth  a mother,  ^^0  my  child!” 

And  who  can  sound  that  depth  of  woe? 
Homeless,  throneless,  crownless — now 
She  bows  her  sorrow-wreathed  brow — 

(So  fame  and  all  its  grandeurs  go) 

Let  her  alone 
Beneath  the  rod 
With  her  infinite  moan, 

^0  my  GodI” 


TN  MEMORIAM. 


FATHER  KEELER  DIED  FEBRUARY  28,  1880,  IK  MOBILE,  ALA. 
INSCRIBED  TO  HIS  SISTER. 


Sweet  Christ!  let  him  live,  ah!  we  need  his  life. 
And  woe  to  ns  if  he  goes ! 

Oh!  his  life  is  beautiful,  sweet,  and  fair. 

Like  a holy  hymn,  and  the  stillest  prayer; 

Let  him  linger  to  help  us  in  the  strife 
On  earth,  with  our  sins  and  woes.’’ 

’Twas  the  cry  of  thousands  who  loved  him  so. 

The  Angel  of  Death  said:  ^^No!  oh!  no!” 

He  was  passing  away — and  none  might  save 
The  virgin  priest  from  a spotless  grave. 

‘‘0  God!  spare  his  life,  we  plead  and  pray. 

He  taught  us  to  love  You  so — 

So,  so  much — his  life  is  so  sweet  and  fair— 

A still,  still  song — and  a holy  prayer; 

He  is  our  Father;  oh!  let  him  stay — 

He  gone,  to  whom  shall  we  go?” 


(894) 


In  Memoriam, 


395 


'Twas  the  wail  of  thousands  who  loved  him  so, 

But  the  Angel  of  Death  murmured  low : ^^No,  no ; ” 
And  the  voice  of  his  angel  from  far  away, 

Sang  to  Christ  in  heaven : ‘‘He  must  not  stay.” 

“0  Mary  I kneel  at  the  great  white  throne, 

And  pray  with  your  children  there — 

Our  hearts  need  his  heart — ’tis  sweet  and  fair, 
Like  the  sound  of  hymns  and  the  breath  of  prayer^ 
Goeth  he  now — we  are  lone — so  lone. 

And  who  is  there  left  to  care?” 

’Twas  the  cry  of  the  souls  who  loved  him  so — • 

But  the  Angel  of  Death  sang:  “Children,  no!” 
And  a voice  like  Christ’s  from  the  far  away. 
Sounded  sweet  and  low:  “He  may  not  stay.” 

From  his  sister’s  heart  swept  the  wildest  moan: 

“ 0 God  let  my  brother  stay — 

I need  him  the  most — oh!  me!  how  lone, 

If  he  passes  from  earth  away — 

0 beautiful  Christ,  for  my  poor  sake 

Let  him  live  for  me,  else  my  heart  will  break.” 

But  the  Angel  of  Death  wept:  “Poor  child!  no,” 
And  Christ  sang:  “Child,  I will  soothe  thy  woe.” 


896 


In  Memoriam. 


"0  Christ!  let  his  sister^s  prayer  be  heard. 

Let  her  look  on  his  face  once  more! 

Ah!  that  prayer  was  a wail — without  a word— 
She  will  look  on  him  nevermore!’^ 

The  long  gray  distances  unmoved  swept 
^Tween  the  dying  eyes  and  the  eyes  that  wept. 

He  was  dying  fast,  and  the  hours  went  by. 

Ah!  desolate  hours  were  they! 

H^s  mind  had  hidden  away  somewhere 
Back  of  a fretted  and  wearied  brow. 

Ere  he  passed  from  life  away. 

And  one  who  loved  him  (at  dead  of  night). 
Crept  up  to  an  altar,  where  the  light 
That  guards  Christ’s  Eucharistic  sleep. 

Shone  strangely  down  on  his  vow: 

• ^pare  him!  0 God! — 0 God!  for  me. 

Take  me,  beautiful  Christ,  instead; 

Let  me  taste  of  death  and  come  to  Thee, 

I will  sleep  for  him  with  the  dead.’' 

The  Angel  of  Death  said:  ^^No!  Priest!  Nol 
You  must  suffer  and  live,  but  he  must  go.’' 
And  a voice  like  Christ’s  sang  far  away: 

<‘He  will  come  to  me,  but  you  must  stay." 


In  Memoriam. 


397 


We  leaned  on  hope  that  was  all  in  vain, 

^Till  the  terrible  word  at  last 
Told  our  stricken  hearts  he  was  out  of  pain. 

And  his  beautiful  life  had  passed. 

Oh!  take  him  away  from  where  he  died; 

Put  him  not  with  the  common  dead 
(For  he  was  so  pure  and  fair) ; 

And  the  city  was  stirred,  and  thousands  cried 
Whose  tears  were  a very  prayer. 

No,  no,  no,  take  him  home  again. 

For  his  bishop^s  heart  beats  there; 

Cast  him  not  with  the  common  dead. 

Let  him  go  home  and  rest  his  head. 

Ah!  his  weary  and  grief- worn  head, 

On  the  heart  of  his  father — he  is  mild 
For  he  loved  him  as  his  own  child. 

And  they  brought  him  home  to  the  home  he  blest^ 
With  his  life  so  sweet  and  fair, 

He  blessed  it  more  in  his  deathly  rest— 

His  face  was  a chiseled  prayer. 

White  as  the  snow,  pure  as  the  foam 
Of  a weary  wave  on  the  sea, 

He  drifted  back — and  they  placed  him  where 
He  would  love  at  last  to  be. 


In  Memoriam. 


His  Father  in  God  thought  over  the  years 
Of  the  beautiful  happy  past; 

Ah!  me!  we  were  happy  then ; but  now. 
The  sorrow  has  come,  and  saddest  tears 
Kiss  the  dead  priest’s  virgin  brow. 


Who  will  watch  o’er  the  dead  young  priesi^ 
People  and  priests  and  all  ? 

Ko,  no,  no,  ’tis  his  spirit’s  feast; 

When  the  evening  shadows  fall. 

Let  him  rest  alone — unwatched,  alone, 

Just  beneath  the  altar’s  light. 

The  holy  hosts  on  their  humble  throne 
Will  watch  him  all  thro’  the  night. 


The  doors  were  closed — ^he  was  still  and  fair, 
What  sound  moved  up  the  aisles  ? 

The  dead  priests  come  with  soundless  prayer. 
Their  faces  wearing  smiles. 

And  this  was  the  soundless  hymn  they  sung: 

We  watch  o’er  you  to-night. 

Your  life  was  beautiful,  fair,  and  young, 

Not  a cloud  upon  its  light. 

To-morrow — to-morrow  you  will  rest 

With  the  virgin  priests  whom  Christ  has  blest.” 


In  Memoviam. 


399 


Kyrie  Eleison tie  stricken  crowd 
Bowed  down  their  heads  in  tears 
O’er  the  sweet  young  priest  in  his  vestment  shroud, 
(Ah I the  happy,  happy  years!) 

They  are  dead  and  gone,  and  the  Kequiem  Mass 
Went  slowly,  mournfully  on. 

The  Pontiff’s  singing  was  all  a wail. 

The  altars  cried,  and  the  people  wept, 

The  fairest  flower  in  the  church’s  vale 
(Ah!  me!  how  soon  we  pass!) 

In  the  vase  of  his  coffin  slept. 

We  bore  him  out  to  his  resting-place, 

Children,  priests,  and  all; 

There  was  sorrow  on  almost  ev’ry  face— 

And  ah!  what  tears  did  fall! 

Tears  from  hearts,  for  a heart  asleep. 

Tears  from  sorrow’s  deepest  deep. 

*^Dust  to  dust,”  he  was  lowered  down; 

Children!  kneel  and  pray — 

*^Give  the  white  rose  priest  a flower  and  crown^ 

For  the  white  rose  passed  away.” 

And  we  wept  our  tears  and  left  him  there. 

And  brought  his  memory  home— 

Ah!  he  was  beautiful,  sweet,  and  fair, 

A heavenly  hymn— a sweet,  still  prayer. 

Pure  as  the  snow,  white  as  the  foam. 


400 


In  Memoriam, 


That  seeks  a lone,  far  shore. 

Dead  Priest!  bless  from  amid  the  blest. 

The  hearts  that  will  guard  thy  place  of  rest. 
Forever,  forever,  forever  more. 


MOBILE  MYSTIC  SOCIETIES. 


Thb  olden  golden  stories  of  the  world, 

That  stirred  the  past, 

And  now  are  dim  as  dreams. 

The  lays  and  legends  which  the  bards  unfurled 
In  lines  that  last, 

All — rhymed  with  glooms  and  gleams. 

Fragments  and  fancies  writ  on  many  a page 
By  deathless  pen. 

And  names,  and  deeds  that  all  along  each  age, 
Thrill  hearts  of  men. 

And  pictures  erstwhile  framed  in  sun  or  shade 
Of  many  climes, 

And  life’s  great  poems  that  can  never  fade 
Nor  lose  their  chimes; 

And  acts  and  facts  that  must  forever  rins: 

Like  temple  bells, 

That  sound  or  seem  to  sound  where  angels  sing 
Vesper  farewells; 

m) 


402 


Mobile  Mystic  Societies. 


And  scenes  where  smiles  are  strangely  touching  tears, 
^Tis  ever  thus, 

Strange  Mystics!  in  the  meeting  of  the  years 
Ye  bring  to  us 

All  these,  and  more;  ye  make  us  smile  and  sigh, 
Strange  power  ye  hold! 

When  New  Year  kneels  low  in  the  star-aisled  sky 
And  asks  the  Old 

To  bless  us  all  with  love,  and  life,  and  light, 

And  when  they  fold 

Each  other  in  their  arms,  ye  stir  the  sight, 

We  look,  and  lol 

The  past  is  passing,  and  the  present  seems 
To  wish  to  go. 

Ye  pass  between  them  on  your  mystic  way 
Thro^  scene  and  scene. 

The  Old  Year  marches  through  your  ranks,  away 
To  what  has  been. 

The  while  the  pageant  moves,  it  scarcely  seems 
Apart  of  earth; 

The  Old  Year  dies — and  heaven  crowns  with  gleams 
The  New  Yearns  birtho 

And  you — ^you  crown  yourselves  with  heaven^s  grace 
To  enter  here; 

A prayer — ascending  from  an  orphan  face, 

Or  just  one  tear 


Mobile  Mystic  Societies. 


403 


May  meet  you  in  the  years  that  are  to  he 
A blessing  rare. 

Ye  pass  beneath  the  arch  of  charity, 

Who  passeth  there 

Is  blest  in  heaven,  and  is  blest  on  earth, 

And  God  will  care, 

Beyond  the  Old  Yearns  death  and  New  Year’s  birth, 
For  each  of  you,  ye  Mystics!  everywhere. 


I 


SEST. 


Mt  feet  are  wearied,  and  my  hands  are  tired. 
My  soul  oppressed — 

And  I desire,  what  I have  long  desired — 
Rest — only  rest 


’Tis  hard  to  toil — when  toil  is  almost  vain. 
In  barren  ways; 

’Tis  hard  to  sow — and  never  garner  grain. 
In  harvest  days. 


The  burden  of  my  days  is  hard  to  bear. 

But  God  knows  best; 

And  I have  prayed — ^but  vain  has  been  my  prayer 
For  rest — sweet  rest. 


’Tis  hard  to  plant  in  Spring  and  never  reap 
The  Autumn  yield; 

•Tis  hard  to  till,  and  ’tis  tilled  to  weep 
O’er  fruitless  field. 


Bed. 


405 


And  so  I cry  a weak  and  human  cry. 
So  heart  oppressed; 

And  so  I sigh  a weak  and  human  sigh. 
For  rest — for  rest. 


My  way  has  wound  across  the  desert  years. 

And  cares  infest 

My  path,  and  through  the  flowing  of  hot  tears, 
I pine — for  rest. 

^Twas  always  so;  when  but  a child  I laid 
On  mother’s  breast 

My  wearied  little  head;  e’en  then  I prayed 
As  now — for  rest. 


And  I am  restless  still;  ’twill  soon  be  o’er; 
For  down  the  West 

Life’s  sun  is  setting,  and  I see  the  shore 
Where  I shall  rest. 


FOLLOW  ME. 


The  Master’s  voice  was  sweet: 

gave  My  life  for  thee; 

Bear  thou  this  cross  thro’  pain  and  loss. 
Arise  and  follow  Me.” 

I clasped  it  in  my  hand — 

0 Thou ! who  diedst  for  me. 

The  day  is  bright,  my  step  is  lights 

’Tis  sweet  to  follow  Thee! 

Through  the  long  Summer  days 

1 followed  lovingly; 

’Twas  bliss  to  hear  His  voice  so  near. 
His  glorious  face  to  see. 

Down  where  the  lilies  pale 

Fringed  the  bright  river’s  brim. 

In  pastures  green  His  steps  were  seen — 
’Twas  sweet  to  follow  Him! 


Follow  Me, 


407 


Oh,  sweet  to  follow  Him ! 

Lord,  let  me  here  abide. 

The  flowers  were  fair;  I lingered  there; 

I laid  His  cross  aside — 

I saw  His  face  no  more 
By  the  bright  river’s  brim; 

Before  me  lay  the  desert  way — 

’Twas  hard  to  follow  Him! 

Yes!  hard  to  follow  Him 
Into  that  dreary  land! 

I was  alone;  His  cross  had  grown 
Too  heavy  for  my  hand. 

I heard  His  voice  afar 

Sound  thro’  the  night  air  chill; 

My  weary  feet  refused  to  meet 
His  coming  o’er  the  hill. 

The  Master’s  voice  was  sad: 

gave  My  life  for  thee; 

I bore  the  cross  thro’  pain  and  loss. 
Thou  hast  not  followed  Me.’^ 

So  fair  the  lilies’  banks. 

So  bleak  the  desert  way: 

The  night  was  dark,  I could  not  mark 
Where  His  blessed  footsteps  lay. 


408 


Follow  Me. 


Fairer  the  lilied  banks, 

Softer  the  grassy  lea; 

^^The  endless  bliss  of  those  who  best 
Have  learned  to  follow  Me! 

Canst  thou  not  follow  Me? 

Hath  patient  love  a power  no  more 
To  move  thy  faithless  heart? 

^‘Wilt  thou  not  follow  Me? 

These  weary  feet  of  Mine 
Have  stained,  and  red  the  pathway  dread 
In  search  of  thee  and  thine.” 

0 Lord!  0 Love  divine! 

Once  more  I follow  Thee! 

Let  me  abide  so  near  Thy  side 
That  I Thy  face  may  see. 

1 clasp  Thy  pierced  hand, 

0 Thou  who  diedst  for  me! 

Fll  bear  Thy  cross  thro’  pain  and  loss. 

So  let  me  cling  to  Thee. 


THE  POETS  CHILD. 


LINES  ADDRESSED  TO  THE  DAUGHTER  OF  RICHARD  DALTON 
WILLIAMS. 


Child  of  the  heart  of  a child  of  sweetest  song! 

The  poet’s  blood  flows  through  thy  fresh  pure  veins; 
Dost  ever  hear  faint  echoes  float  along 
Thy  days  and  dreams  of  thy  dead  father’s  strains? 
Dost  ever  hear, 

In  mournful  times, 

With  inner  ear. 

The  strange  sweet  cadences  of  thy  father’s  rhymes? 

Child  of  a child  of  art,  which  Heaven  doth  give 
To  few,  to  very  few  as  unto  him! 

His  songs  are  wandering  o’er  the  world,  but  live 
In  his  child’s  heart,  in  some  place  lone  and  dim; 

And  nights  and  days 
With  vestal’s  eyes 
And  soundles  sighs 

Thou  keepest  watch  above  thy  father’s  lays, 
m) 


410 


The  PoeVs  Child. 


Child  of  a dreamer  of  dreams  alLunfiilfilled — 

(And  thou  art,  child,  a living  dream  of  him) — 

Dost  ever  feel  thy  spirit  all  enthrilled 
With  his  lost  dreams  when  summer  days  wane  dim; 
When  suns  go  down, 

Thou,  song  oi?’,  the  dead  singer. 

Dost  sigh  at  evi^  and  grieve 
O’er  the  brow  that  paled  befoi^e  it  won  the  crown? 

\ 

Child  of  the  patriot!  Oh,  how  he^loved  his  land! 

And  how  he  moaned  o’er  Erin’s  ev’ry  wrong! 

Child  of  the  singer!  he  swept  with  purest  hand 
The  octaves  of  all  agonies,  until  his  song 
Sobbed  o’er  the  sea; 

And  now  through  thee 
It  cometh  to  me, 

Like  a shadow  song  from  some  Gethsemane. 

Child  of  the  wanderer!  and  his  heart  the  shrine 
Where  three  loves  blended  into  only  one — 

His  God’s,  thy  mother’s,  and  his  country’s;  and  ’tis  thine 
To  be  the  living  ray  of  such  a glorious  sun. 

His  genius  gleams. 

My  child,  within  thee. 

And  dim  thy  dreams 
As  stars  on  the  midnight  sea. 


The  PoeTs  Child. 


411 


Child  of  thy  father!  I have  read  his  songs — 

Thou  art  the  sweetest  song  he  ever  sung — 

Peaceful  as  Psalms,  but  when  his  country's  wrongs 
Swept  o^er  his  heart  he  stormed.  And  he  was  young; 
He  died  too  soon — 

So  men  will  say — 

Before  he  reached  Fame^s  noon; 

His  songs  are  letters  in  a book — thou  art  their  ray. 


MOTHERS S WAT. 


Oft  within  our  little  cottage. 

As  the  shadows  gently  fall. 

While  the  sunlight  touches  softly 
One  sweet  face  upon  the  wall. 

Do  we  gather  close  together, 

And  in  hushed  and  tender  tone 
Ask  each  other’s  full  forgiveness 
For  the  wrong  that  each  has  done. 
Should  you  wonder  why  this  custom 
At  the  ending  of  the  day, 

Eye  and  voice  would  quickly  answer: 
^^It  was  once  our  mother’s  way.” 

If  our  home  be  bright  and  cheery. 

If  it  holds  a welcome  true, 
Opening  wide  its  door  of  greeting 
To  the  many — not  the  few; 

If  we  share  our  father’s  bounty 
With  the  needy  day  by  day, 

’Tis  because  our  hearts  remember 
This  was  ever  mother’s  way. 

(412^ 


Mother^s  Way. 


413 


Sometimes  when  our  hands  grow  weary. 
Or  our  tasks  seem  very  long; 

When  our  burdens  look  too  heavy, 

And  we  deem  the  right  all  wrong: 
Then  we  gain  a new,  fresh  courage. 

And  we  rise  to  proudly  say: 

"^Let  us  do  our  duty  bravely — • 

This  was  our  dear  mother’s  way.’^ 

Then  we  keep  her  memory  precious. 
While  we  never  cease  to  pray 
That  at  last,  when  lengthening  shadows 
Mark  the  evening  of  our  day. 

They  may  find  us  waiting  calmly 
To  go  home  our  mother’s  way. 


FEAST  OF  THE  PRESENTATION  OF  MARY 
IN  THE  TEMPLE. 


The  priests  stood  waiting  in  the  holy  place. 
Impatient  of  delay 
(Isaiah  had  been  read), 

When  sudden  up  the  aisle  there  came  a face 
Like  a lost  sun’s  ray; 

And  the  child  was  led 
By  Joachim  and  Anna.  Eays  of  grace 
Shone  all  about  the  child ; 

Simeon  looked  on,  and  bowed  his  aged  head— 
Looked  on  the  child,  and  smiled. 

Low  were  the  words  of  Joachim.  He  spake 
In  a tremulous  way. 

As  if  he  were  afraid. 

Or  as  if  his  heart  were  just  about  to  break. 

And  knew  not  what  to  say; 

And  low  he  bowed  his  head — 

While  Anna  wept  the  while — he,  sobbing,  said: 

Priests  of  the  holy  temple,  will  you  take 
Into  your  care  our  child?” 

And  Simeon,  listening,  prayed,  and  strangely  smiled* 


Feast  of  the  Presentation  of  Mary  in  the  Temple,  415 


A silence  for  a moment  fell  on  all; 

They  gazed  in  mute  surprise, 

Not  knowing  what  to  say. 

Till  Simeon  spake:  Child,  hast  thou  heayen^s  call?’’ 
And  the  child’s  wondrous  eyes 
(Each  look  a lost  sun’s  ray) 

Turned  toward  the  far  mysterious  wall. 

(Did  the  veil  of  the  temple  sway?) 

They  looked  from  the  curtain  to  the  little  child — 
Simeon  seemed  to  pray,  and  strangely  smiled. 

Yes;  heaven  sent  me  here.  Priests,  let  me  in!’^ 

(And  the  voice  was  sweet  and  low). 

‘^Was  it  a dream  by  night? 

A voice  did  call  me  from  this  world  of  sin— 

A spirit-voice  I know. 

An  angel  pure  and  bright. 

* Leave  father,  mother,’  said  the  voice,  ^and  win^ 

(I  see  my  angel  now) 

*The  crown  of  a virgin’s  vow.^ 

I am  three  summers  old — a little  child.” 

And  Simeon  seemed  to  pray  the  while  he  smiled. 

Yes,  holy  priests,  our  father’s  God  is  great. 

And  all  His  mercies  sweet! 

His  angel  bade  me  come — 

Come  thro’  the  temple’s  beautiful  gate; 


416  Feast  of  the  Presentation  of  Mary  in  the  Temph 


He  led  my  heart  and  feet 
To  this,  my  holy  home. 

He  said  to  me:  ^ Three  years  your  God  will  wait 
Your  heart  to  greet  and  meet.’' 

I am  three  summers  old — 

I see  my  angel  now — 

Brighter  his  wings  than  gold— 

He  knoweth  of  my  vow.’^ 

The  priests,  in  awe,  came  closer  to  the  child— 

She  wore  an  angeBs  look — and  Simeon  smiled. 

As  if  she  were  the  very  holy  ark, 

Simeon  placed  his  hand 
On  the  fair,  pure  head. 

The  sun  had  set,  and  it  was  growing  dark; 

The  robed  priests  did  stand 
Around  the  child.  He  said: 

^‘XJnto  me,  priests,  and  all  ye  Levites,  harki 
This  child  is  God^s  own  gift — 

Let  us  our  voices  lift 

In  holy  praise.’^  They  gazed  upon  the  child 

In  wonderment — and  Simeon  prayed  and  smiled. 

And  Joachim  and  Anna  went  their  way — 

The  little  child,  she  shed 
The  tenderest  human  tears. 

The  priests  and  Levites  lingered  still  to  prayj 


Feast  of  the  Presentation  of  Mary  in  the  Temple,  417 


And  Simeon  said: 

teach  the  latter  years 
The  night  is  passing  Tore  the  coming  day 
(Isaiah  had  been  read) 

Of  our  redemption^’ — and  some  way  the  child 
Won  all  their  hearts.  Simeon  prayed  and  smiled. 

That  night  the  temple’s  child  knelt  down  to  pray 
In  the  shadows  of  the  aisle — 

She  prayed  for  you  and  me. 

Why  did  the  temple’s  mystic  curtain  sway? 

Why  did  the  shadows  smile? 

The  child  of  Love’s  decree 
Had  come  at  last;  and  ’neath  the  night-stars’  gleam 
The  aged  Simeon  did  see  in  dream 
The  mystery  of  the  child, 

And  in  his  sleep  he  murmured  prayer — and  smiled. 

And  twelve  years  after,  up  the  very  aisle 
Where  Simeon  had  smiled 
Upon  her  fair,  pure  face. 

She  came  again,  with  a mother’s  smil^ 

And  in  her  arms  a Child, 

The  very  God  of  grace. 

And  Simeon  took  the  Infant  from  her  breast. 

And,  in  glad  tones  and  strong. 

He  sang  his  glorious  song 
Of  faith,  and  hope,  and  everlasting  rest. 


ST.  BRIDGET. 


Sweet  heaven^s  smile 
Gleamed  o^er  the  isle, 

That  gems  the  dreamy  se% 

One  far  gone  day, 

And  fash’d  its  ray. 

More  than  a thousand  years  airay. 
Pure  Bridget,  over  thee. 


White  as  the  snow. 

That  falls  below 
To  earth  on  Christmas  nigh^ 

Thy  pure  face  shone 
On  every  one; 

For  Christ’s  sweet  grace  thy  heart  had  won 
To  make  thy  birth-land  bright. 


(418) 


St  Bridget* 


419 


A cloud  hangs  o’er 
Thy  Erin’s  shore — 

All ! God,  ’twas  always  sow 
Ah!  virgin  fair 
Thy  heaven  pray’r 
Will  help  thy  people  in  their  care. 
And  save  them  from  their  woe. 


Thou  art  in  light—  * 

They  are  in  light; 

Thou  hast  a crown — ^they  a chaiiu 
The  very  sod, 

Made  theirs  by  God, 

Is  still  by  tyrants’  footsteps  trod; 
They  pray — but  all  in  vain. 


Thou!  near  Christ’s  throne. 

Dost  hear  the  moan 

Of  all  their  hearts  that  grieve; 

Ah!  virgin  sweet. 

Kneel  at  His  feet. 

Where  angels’  hymns  thy  prayer  shall  greet. 
And  pray  for  them  this  eve. 


NEW  YEAR. 


Each  year  cometh  with  all  his  days, 

Some  are  shadowed  and  some  are  bright; 
He  beckons  us  on  until  he  stays 
Kneeling  with  us  ^neath  Christmas  night. 

Kneeling  under  the  stars  that  gem 
The  holy  sky,  o’er  the  humble  place, 
When  the  world’s  sweet  Child  of  Bethlehem 
Bested  on  Mary,  full  of  grace. 


Not  only  the  Bethlehem  in  the  East, 
But  altar  Bethlehem  everywhere, 
When  the  Gloria  of  the  first  great  feast 
Kings  forth  its  gladness  on  the  air. 


Each  year  seemeth  loath  to  go. 

And  leave  the  joys  of  Christmas  day; 
In  lands  of  sun  and  in  lands  of  snow. 
The  year  still  longs  awhile  to  stay. 

(420) 


New  Year, 


421 


A little  while,  ’tis  hard  to  part 

From  this  Christ  blessed  here  below. 
Old  year ! and  in  thy  aged  heart 
I hear  thee  sing  so  sweet  and  low* 

A song  like  this,  but  sweeter  far, 

And  yet  as  if  with  a human  tone. 
Under  the  blessed  Christmas  star. 

And  thou  descendest  from  thy  throne* 


^^A  few  more  days  and  I am  gone, 

The  hours  move  swift  and  sure  along; 
Yet  still  I fain  would  linger  on 
In  hearing  of  the  Christmas  song 


bow  to  Him  who  rules  all  years; 
Thrice  blessed  is  His  high  behest; 
Nor  will  He  blame  me  if,  with  tears, 
I pass  to  my  eternal  rest. 


‘^Ah,  me!  to  altars  every  day 

I brought  the  sun  and  the  holy  Mass; 
The  people  came  by  my  light  to  pray, 
While  countless  priests  did  onward  pass. 


422 


New  Yea 


^‘The  words  of  the  Holy  Thursday  night 
To  one  another  from  east  to  west; 
And  the  holy  Host  on  the  altar  white 
Would  take  its  little  half-hour’s  rest. 


^^And  every  minute  of  every  hour 

The  Mass  bell  rang  with  its  sound  so  sweet, 
While  from  shrine  to  shrine,  with  tireless  power, 
And  heaven’s  love,  walked  the  nailed  feet. 


brought  the  hours  for  Angelus  bells, 

And  from  a thousand  temple  towers 

They  wound  their  sweet  and  blessed  spell 
Around  the  hearts  of  all  the  hours. 

Every  day  has  a day  oi  grace 

For  those  who  fain  would  make  them  so; 

I saw  o’er  the  world  in  every  place 
The  wings  of  guardian  angels  glow. 

*^Men!  could  you  hear  the  song  I sing — 

But  no,  alasl  it  cannot  be  sol 

My  heir  that  comes  would  only  bring 
Blessings  to  bless  you  here  below.’’ 

m MM 


New  Year. 


42a 


Seven  days  passed;  the  gray,  old  year 
Calls  to  his  throne  the  coming  heir; 
Falls  from  his  eyes  the  last,  sad  tear, 
And  lol  there  is  gladness  everywhere. 


Singing,  I hear  the  whole  world  sing. 

Afar,  anear,  aloud,  alow: 

What  to  us  will  the  New  Year  bring!’' 
Ah!  would  that  each  of  us  might  knowl 


Is  it  not  truth?  as  old  as  true? 

List  ye,  singers,  the  while  ye  singl 
Each  year  bringeth  to  each  of  you 
What  each  of  you  will  have  him  bring. 


The  year  that  cometh  is  a king. 

With  better  gifts  than  the  old  year  gave; 
If  you  place  on  his  fingers  the  holy  ring 
Of  prayer,  the  king  becomes  your  slave. 


ZEILA. 


A 8T0RY  FROM  A STAB. 


Prom  the  mystic  sidereal  spaces. 

In  the  noon  of  a night  ’mid  of  May, 

Came  a spirit  that  murmured  to  me— 

Or  was  it  the  dream  of  a dream? 

No!  no!  from  the  purest  of  places. 

Where  liveth  the  highest  of  races. 

In  an  unfallen  sphere  far  away 
(And  it  wore  Immortality’s  gleam) 

Came  a Being.  Hath  seen  on  the  sea 
The  sheen  of  some  silver  star  shimmer 
’Thwart  shadows  that  fall  dim  and  dimmer 
O’er  a wave  half  in  dream  on  the  deep  ? 

It  shone  on  me  thus  in  my  sleep. 

Was  I sleeping?  Is  sleep  but  the  closing, 
In  the  night,  of  our  eyes  from  the  light? 
Doth  the  spirit  of  man  e’en  then  rest? 

Or  doth  it  not  toil  all  the  more? 

im 


Zeila. 


42S 


When  the  earth-wearied  frame  is  reposing, 

Is  the  vision  then  veiled  the  less  bright? 

When  the  earth  from  our  sight  hath  been  taken. 
The  fetters  of  senses  off  shaken, 

The  soul,  doth  it  not  then  awaken 
To  the  light  on  Infinity’s  shore? 

And  is  not  its  vision  then  best. 

And  truest,  and  farthest,  and  clearest? 

In  night,  is  not  heaven  the  nearest? 

Ah,  me ! let  th©  day  have  his  schemers. 

Let  them  work  on  their  ways  as  they  will. 

And  their  workings,  I trow,  have  their  worth. 
But  the  unsleeping  spirits  of  dreamers, 

In  hours  when  the  world-voice  is  still. 

Are  building,  with  faith  without  falter, 

Bright  steps  up  to  heaven’s  high  altar. 

Where  lead  all  the  aisles  of  the  earth. 

Was  I sleeping?  I know  not — or  waking? 

The  body  was  resting,  I ween; 

Meseems  it  was  o’ermuch  tired 

With  the  toils  of  the  day  that  had  gone; 

When  sudden  there  came  the  bright  breaking 
Of  light  thro’  a shadowy  screen; 

And  with  the  brightness  there  blended 
The  voice  of  the  Being  descendec: 


426 


Zeila. 


From  a star  ever  pure  of  all  sin, 

In  a music  too  sweet  to  be  lyred 
By  the  lips  of  the  sinful  and  mortal. 

And,  oh!  how  the  pure  brightness  shone! 
As  shines  thro’  the  summer  morn’s  portal 
Bays  golden  and  white  as  the  snow. 

As  white  as  the  flakes — ah,  no!  whiter; 
Only  angelic  wings  may  be  brighter 
When  they  flash  o’er  the  brow  of  some  woe 
That  walketh  this  shadowed  below. 

The  soul  loseth  never  its  seeing. 

In  the  goings  of  night  and  of  day 
It  graspeth  the  Inflnite  Far. 

No  wonder  there  may  come  some  Being, 

As  if  it  had  wandered  astray 
At  times  down  the  wonder-fllled  way — 

As  to  me  in  the  midnight  of  May — 

From  its  home  in  some  glory-crowned  star. 
Where  evil  hath  never  left  traces; 

Where  dwelleth  the  highest  of  races. 

Save  the  angels  that  circle  the  throne. 

In  a grace  far  beyond  all  our  graces. 

Whose  Christ  is  the  same  as  our  own. 

Yea!  I ween  the  star  spaces  are  teeming 
With  the  gladness  of  life  and  of  love. 


Zeila. 


427 


No!  no!  I am  not  at  all  dreaming — 

The  Below’s  hands  enclasp  the  Above. 

’Tis  a truth  that  is  more  than  a seeming — 
Creation  is  many,  tho’  one, 

And  we  are  the  last  of  its  creatures. 

This  earth  bears  the  sign  of  our  sin 
(From  the  highest  the  evil  came  in); 

Yet  ours  are  the  same  human  features 
That  veiled  long  agone  the  Divine. 

How  comes  it,  0 holy  Creator! 

That  we,  not  the  first,  but  the  latter 
Of  varied  and  numberless  beings 
Springing  forth  in  Thy  loving  decreeings. 
That  we  are,  of  all,  the  most  Thine  ? 

Yea!  we  are  the  least  and  the  lowly. 

The  half  of  our  history  gone. 

We  look  up  the  Infinite  slope 
In  faith,  and  we  walk  on  in  hope; 

But  think  ye  from  here  to  the  ^^Holy 
Of  Holies”  beyond  yon  still  sky. 

O’er  the  stars  that  forever  move  on, 

I’  the  heavens  beyond  the  bright  Third, 

In  glory’s  inefiable  light; 

Where  the  Father,  and  Spirit,  and  Word 
Eeign  circled  by  angels  all  bright— 


42S 


Zeikb. 


Ah!  think  you  ’tween  Here  and  that  Yonder 
There  is  u aught  but  the  silence  of  death? 
There’s  naught  of  love’s  wish  or  life’s  wonder. 
And  naught  but  an  infinite  night? 

No!  no!  the  great  Father  is  fonder 
Of  breathing  His  life-giving  breath 
Into  beings  of  numberless  races. 

And  from  here  on  and  up  to  His  throne 
The  Trinity’s  beautiful  faces, 

In  countlessly  various  traces, 

Are  seen  in  more  stars  than  our  own. 

This  earth  telleth  not  half  the  story 
Of  the  infinite  heart  of  our  God — ■ 

The  heavens  proclaim  of  His  glory 
The  least  little  part,  and  His  power 
Broke  not  its  sceptre  when  earth 
Was  beckoned  by  Him  into  birth. 

Is  He  resting,  I wonder,  to-night? 

Can  He  rest  when  His  love  sways  His  will  ? 
Will  He  rest  ere  His  glory  shall  fill 
All  spaces  below  and  above 
With  beings  to  know  and  to  love? 

Creation — when  was  it  begun  ? 

Who  knows  its  first  day?  Nay,  none. 

And  then,  what  ken  among  men 
Can  tell  when  the  last  work  is  done? 


Zeikb. 


429 


Is  He  resting,  I wonder,  to-night? 

Doth  He  ever  grow  weary  of  giving 
To  Darknesses  rays  of  His  light? 

Doth  He  ever  grow  weary  of  giving 
To  Nothings  the  rapture  of  living 
And  waiting  awhile  for  His  sight? 

If  His  will  rules  His  glorious  power, 
And  if  love  sways  His  beautiful  will, 

Is  He  not,  e’en  in  this  very  hour, 

Going  on  with  love’s  wonder-work  still? 

* * * :}!  * ♦ 

Let  me  pray  just  awhile,  for  betimes 
My  spirit  is  clouded;  and  then 
Strange  darknesses  creep  o’er  my  rhymes, 
Till  prayer  lendeth  light  to  my  pen. 

And  then  shall  I better  unfold 
The  story  to  me  that  was  told. 

Of  the  unfallen  star  far  away. 

In  the  noon  of  the  night  ’mid  of  May, 

By  the  beautiful  Being  who  came, 

With  the  pure  and  the  beautiful  name. 
•^Call  me  Zeila,”  the  bright  spirit  said. 

And  passed  from  my  vision  afar. 

With  rapture  I bowed  down  my  head. 
And  dreamed  of  that  unfallen  star. 


BETTER  THAN  GOLD. 


Bettek  than  grandeur,  better  than  gold. 

Than  rank  and  titles  a thousand  fold, 

Is  a healthy  body  and  a mind  at  ease, 

And  simple  pleasures  that  always  please 
A heart  that  can  feel  for  another’s  woe, 

With  sympathies  large  enough  to  enfold 
All  men  as  brothers,  is  better  than  gold. 

Better  than  gold  is  a conscience  clear. 

Though  toiling  for  bread  in  an  humble  sphere. 
Doubly  blessed  with  content  and  health. 
Untried  by  the  lusts  and  cares  of  wealth. 
Lowly  living  and  lofty  thought 
Adorn  and  ennoble  a poor  man’s  cot; 

For  mind  and  morals  in  nature’s  plan 
Are  the  genuine  tests  of  a gentleman. 

Better  than  gold  is  the  sweet  repose 
Of  the  sons  of  toil  when  the  labors  close; 
Better  than  gold  is  the  poor  man’s  sleep, 

And  the  balm  that  drops  on  his  slumbers  deep 


Better  Than  Oold. 


431 


Bring  sleeping  draughts  on  the  downy  bed> 
Where  luxury  pillows  its  aching  head, 

The  toiler  simple  opiate  deems 
A shorter  route  to  the  land  of  dreams. 

Better  than  gold  is  a thinking  mind. 

That  in  the  realm  of  books  can  find 
A treasure  surpassing  Australian  ore. 

And  live  Avith  the  great  and  good  of  yore. 

The  sage’s  lore  and  the  poet’s  lay, 

The  glories  of  empires  passed  away; 

The  world’s  great  dream  will  thus  unfold 
And  yield  a pleasure  better  than  gold. 

Better  than  gold  is  a peaceful  home 
Where  all  the  fireside  characters  come. 

The  shrine  of  love,  the  heaven  of  life, 
Hallowed  by  mother,  or  sister,  or  wife. 
However  humble  the  home  may  be. 

Or  tried  with  sorrow  by  heaven’s  decree. 

The  blessings  that  never  were  bought  or  sold. 
And  centre  there,  are  better  than  gold. 


SEA  DREAMimS 


To-day  a bird  on  wings  as  white  as  foam 
That  crests  the  blue-gray  wave, 

With  the  vesper  light  upon  its  breast,  flew  home 
Seaward.  The  God  who  gave 
To  the  birds  the  virgin-wings  of  snow 
Somehow  telleth  them  the  ways  they  go. 

Unto  the  Evening  went  the  white-winged  bird— 
Gray  clouds  hung  round  the  West — 

And  far  away  the  tempest^s  tramp  was  heard. 

The  bird  flew  for  a rest 
Away  from  the  grove,  out  to  the  sea- 
ls it  only  a bird’s  mystery? 

Nay!  nay!  lone  bird!  I watched  thy  wings  of  white 
That  cleft  thy  waveward  way — 

Past  the  evening  and  swift  into  the  night, 

Out  of  the  calm,  bright  day — 

And  thou  didst  teach  me,  bird  of  the  sea, 

More  than  one  human  heart’s  history. 

(432) 


Sea  Dreamings. 


433 


Only  men’s  hearts — tho’  God  shows  each  its  way 
That  leadeth  hence  to  home — 

Unlike  the  wild  sea-birds,  somehow  go  astray, 

Seeking  in  the  far  foam 
Of  this  strange  world’s  tempest-trampled  main 
A resting  place — ^but  they  seek  in  vain. 

Only  the  bird  can  rest  upon  the  deep, 

And  sleep  upon  the  wave, 

And  dream  its  peaceful  dreams  where  wild  winds  sweep. 
And  sweet  the  God  who  gave 
The  birds  a rest  place  on  the  restless  sea — 

But  this,  my  heart,  is  not  His  way  with  thee. 

Over  the  world,  ah ! passion’s  tempests  roll. 

And  every  fleck  of  foam 

Whitens  the  place  where  sank  some  sin-wrecked  soul 
That  never  shall  reach  home. 

Ah!  the  tranquil  shore  of  God’s  sweet,  calm  grace. 

My  heart,  is  thy  only  resting  place. 


SEA  REST. 


Fab  from  where  the  roses  resi^’^ 
Round  the  altar  and  the  aisle. 
Which  I loved,  of  all,  the  best — 

I have  come  to  rest  awhile 
By  the  ever-restless  sea — 

Will  its  waves  give  rest  to  me? 

But  it  is  so  hard  to  part 
With  my  roses.  Do  they  know 
(Who  knows  but  each  has  a heart?) 

How  it  grieves  my  heart  to  go? 
Roses!  will  the  restless  sea 
Bring,  as  ye,  a rest  for  me? 

Ye  were  sweet  and  still  and  calm, 
Roses  red  and  roses  white; 

And  ye  sang  a soundless  psalm 
For  me  in  the  day  and  night. 
Roses!  will  the  restless  sea 
Sing  as  sweet  as  ye  for  me? 


ISea  Rest. 


435 


Just  a hundred  feet  away. 

Seaward,  flows  and  ebbs  the  tide; 

And  the  wavelets,  blue  and  gray. 

Moan,  and  white  sails  windward  glide 
O^er  the  ever  restless  sea 
Prom  me,  far  and  peacefully. 

And  as  many  feet  away. 

Landward,  rise  the  moss-veiled  trees; 
And  they  wail,  the  while  they  sway 
In  the  sad  November  breeze. 

Echoes  in  the  sighing  sea 
To  me,  near  and  mournfully. 

And  beside  me  sleep  the  dead. 

In  the  consecrated  ground; 

Blessed  crosses  o’er  each  head. 

O’er  them  all  the  Eequiem  sound. 
Chanted  by  the  moaning  sea. 

Echoed  by  each  moss-veiled  tree. 

Roses!  will  you  miss  my  face? 

Do  you  know  that  I have  gone 
Prom  your  fair  and  restful  place. 

Par  away  where  moveth  on 
Night  and  day  the  restless  sea? 

But  I saw  eternity 


436 


Sea  Rest. 


In  your  faces.  Eoses  sweet! 

Ye  were  but  the  virgin  veils, 

Hiding  Him  whose  holy  feet 
Walked  the  waves,  whose  very  wails 
Bring  to  me  from  Galilee 
Eest  across  the  restless  sea. 

And  who  knows?  mayhap  some  wave. 
From  His  footstep  long  ago. 

With  the  blessing  which  He  gave 
After  ages  ebb  and  flow, 

Cometh  in  from  yonder  sea. 

With  a blessing  sweet  for  me. 

Just  last  night  I watched  the  deep. 
And  it  shone  as  shines  a shrine, 
(Vigils  such  I often  keep) 

And  the  stars  did  sweetly  shine 
O’er  the  altar  of  the  sea; 

So  they  shone  in  Galilee, 

Roses!  round  the  shrine  and  aisle! 

Which  of  all  I loved  the  best, 

I have  gone  to  rest  awhile 

Where  the  wavelets  never  rest— 

Ye  are  dearer  far  to  me 
Than  the  ever  restless  sea. 


Sea  Rest. 


437 


I will  come  to  you  in  dreams. 

In  the  day  and  in  the  night. 

When  the  sun^s  or  starlight’s  gleama 
Eobe  you  in  your  red  or  white; 
Eosesl  will  you  dream  of  me 
By  the  ever  restless  sea? 

Biloxi,  Miss* 


SEA  REVERIE. 


SxRAi^'GE  Sea!  why  is  it  that  you  never  rest? 

And  tell  me  why  you  never  go  to  sleep? 

Thou  art  like  one  so  sad  and  sin-oppressed — 

(And  the  waves  are  the  tears  you  weep) — ► 

And  thou  didst  never  sin — ^what  ails  the  sinless  deep? 


To-night  I hear  you  crying  on  the  beach. 

Like  a weary  child  on  its  mother’s  breast — 

A cry  with  an  infinite  and  lonesome  reach 
Of  unutterably  deep  unrest; 

And  thou  didst  never  sin — ^why  art  thou  so  distressed? 

But,  ah,  sad  sea!  the  mother’s  breast  is  warm. 

Where  crieth  the  lone  and  the  wearied  child; 

And  soft  the  arms  that  shield  her  own  from  harm; 

And  her  look  is  unutterably  mild — 

But  to-night,  0 Sea!  thy  cry  is  wild,  so  wild! 

(488) 


Sea  Reverie. 


439 


What  ails  thee,  Sea?  The  midnight  stars  are  bright — * 
How  safe  they  lean  on  heaven^s  sinless  breast! 

0 Sea!  is  the  beach  too  hard,  tho^  e’er  so  white. 

To  give  thy  utter  weariness  a rest? 

(And  to-night  the  winds  are  a-coming  from  the  West^. 

Where  the  shadows  moan  o’er  the  day’s  life  done. 

And  the  darkness  is  waiting  for  the  light. 

Ah,  me!  how  the  shadows  ever  seek  and  shun 
The  sacred,  radiant  faces  of  the  bright — 

(And  the  stars  are  the  vestal  virgins  of  the  night)j 


Or  am  I dreaming?  Do  I see  and  hear 
Without  me  what  I feel  within? 

Is  there  an  inner  eye  and  an  inner  ear 
Thro’  which  the  sounds  and  silences  float  in 
In  reflex  of  the  spirit’s  calm  or  troublous  din? 


I know  not.  After  all,  what  do  I know? 

Save  only  this — and  that  is  mystery — 

Like  the  sea,  my  spirit  hath  its  ebb  and  flow 
In  unison,  and  the  tides  of  the  sea 
Ever  reflect  the  ceaseless  tides  of  thoughts  in  me. 


440 


Sea  Reverie. 


Waves,  are  ye  priests  in  surplices  of  gray. 

Fringed  by  the  fingers  of  the  breeze  with  white? 
Is  the  beach  your  altar  where  ye  come  to  pray. 
With  the  sea’s  ritual,  every  day  and  night? 

And  the  suns  and  stars  your  only  altar  light? 


Great  Sea!  the  very  rythm  of  my  song 
(And  the  winds  are  a-coming  from  the  West), 

Like  thy  waves,  moveth  uncertainly  along; 

And  my  thoughts,  like  thy  tide  with  a snow-white 
crest. 

Flow  and  ebb,  ebb  and  flow  with  thy  own  unresto 
Biloxi,  Miss. 


TEE  IMMACULATE  CONCEPTION. 


Fell  the  snow  on  the  festival’s  vigil 
And  surpliced  the  city  in  white; 

I wonder  who  wove  the  pure  flakelets? 
Ask  the  Virgin,  or  God,  or  the  night. 


It  fitted  the  Feast:  ’twas  a symbol, 

And  earth  wore  the  surplice  at  mom. 
As  pure  as  the  vale’s  stainless  lily 
For  Mary,  the  sinlessly  born; 


For  Mary,  conceived  in  all  sinlessness; 

And  the  sun,  thro’  the  clouds  of  the  East, 
With  the  brightest  and  fairest  of  fiashes, 
Fringed  the  surplice  of  white  for  the  Feast. 


And  round  the  horizon  hung  cloudlets. 

Pure  stoles  to  be  worn  by  the  Feast; 

While  the  earth  and  the  heavens  were  waiting 
For  the  beautiful  Mass  of  the  priest. 

(441) 


442 


The  Immaculate  Conception. 

I opened  my  window,  half  dreaming; 

My  soul  went  away  from  my  eyes. 

And  my  heart  began  saying  ^^Hail  Marys 
Son>ewhere  up  in  the  beautiful  skies. 

Where  the  shadows  of  sin  never  rested; 

And  the  angels  were  waiting  to  hear 
The  prayer  that  ascends  with  Our  Father,^^ 
And  keeps  hearts  and  the  heavens  so  near. 


And  all  the  day  long — can  you  blame  me? 

^^Hail  Mary,’’  ^^Our  Father,”  I said; 

And  I think  that  the  Christ  and  His  Mother 
Were  glad  of  the  way  that  I prayed. 


And  I think  that  the  great,  bright  Archangel 
Was  listening  all  the  day  long 
For  the  echo  of  every  ^^Hail  Mary’^ 

That  soared  thro’  the  skies  like  a song. 


From  the  hearts  of  the  true  and  the  faithful. 
In  accents  of  joy  or  of  woe. 

Who  kissed  in  their  faith  and  their  fervor 
The  Festival’s  surplice  of  snow. 


The  Immaculate  Conception.  44S 

I listened,  and  each  passing  minute, 

I heard  in  the  lands  far  away 
^^Hail  Mary,”  ^^Our  Father,”  and  near  me 
I heard  all  who  knelt  down  to  pray. 


Pray  the  same  as  I prayed,  and  the  angel. 
And  the  same  as  the  Christ  of  our  love — ■ 
‘‘Our  Father,”  “Hail  Mary,”  “Our  Father” — 
Winging  just  the  same  sweet  flight  above. 


Passed  the  morning,  the  noon:  came  the  even— 
The  temple  of  Christ  was  aflame 
With  the  halo  of  lights  on  three  altars. 

And  one  wore  His  own  Mother^s  name. 


Her  statue  stood  there,  and  around  it 

Shone  the  symbolic  stars.  Was  their  gleam. 
And  the  flowerets  that  fragranced  her  altar. 
Were  they  only  the  dream  of  a dream? 


Or  were  they  sweet  signs  to  my  vision 
Of  a truth  far  beyond  mortal  ken. 

That  the  Mother  had  rights  in  the  temple 
Of  Him  she  had  given  to  men  ? 


444  The  Immaculate  Conception. 

Was  it  wronging  her  Ohrist-Son,  I wonder. 
For  the  Christian  to  honor  her  so? 
Ought  her  statue  pass  out  of  His  temple? 
Ask  the  Feast  in  its  surplice  of  snow* 

Ah,  me!  had  the  pure  flakelets  voices, 

I know  what  their  white  lips  would  say; 
And  I know  that  the  lights  on  her  altar 
Would  pray  with  me  if  they  could  pray. 


Methinks  that  the  flowers  that  were  fading— 
Sweet  virgins  that  die  with  the  Feast, 

Like  martyrs,  upon  her  fair  altar — • 

If  they  could,  they  would  pray  with  the  priest 


And  would  murmur  ^^Our  Father,’^  ^^Hail  Mary, 
Till  they  drooped  on  the  altar  in  death. 

And  be  glad  in  their  dying  for  giving 
To  Mary  their  last  sweetest  breath. 


Passed  the  day  as  a poem  that  passes 
Through  the  poet’s  heart’s  sweetest  of  strings; 
Moved  the  minutes  from  Masses  to  Masses— 

Did  I hear  a faint  sound  as  of  wings 


The  Immaculate  Conception. 


443 


Eustling  over  the  aisles  and  the  altars? 

Did  they  go  to  her  altar  and  pray? 
Or  was  my  heart  only  a-d reaming 
At  the  close  of  the  Festival  day? 


Quiet  throngs  came  into  the  temple. 

As  still  as  the  flowers  at  her  feet, 

And  wherever  they  knelt,  they  were  gazing 
Where  the  statue  looked  smiling  and  sweet. 


^^Our  Fathers,’’  ^^Hail  Marys”  were  blended 
In  a pure  and  a perfect  accord, 

And  passed  by  the  beautiful  Mother 
To  fall  at  the  feet  of  our  Lord. 


Low  toned  from  the  hearts  of  a thousand 
^^Our  Fathers,”  ^^Hail  Marys”  swept  on 
To  the  star-wreathed  statue.  I wonder 
Did  they  wrong  the  great  name  of  her  Son. 


Her  Son  and  our  Saviour — I wonder 
IIow  He  heard  our  ^^Hail  Marys”  that  night? 
Were  the  words  to  Him  sweet  as  the  music 
They  once  were,  and  did  we  pray  right? 


446 


The  Immaculate  Conception. 


Or  was  it  all  wrong?  Will  be  punish 
Our  lips  if  we  make  them  the  home 
Of  the  words  of  the  great,  high.  Archangel 
That  won  Him  to  sinners  to  come. 


Ah,  me!  does  He  blame  my  own  mother. 
Who  taught  me,  a child,  at  her  knee, 

To  say,  with  ^^Our  Father,’^  ^^Hail  Mary?’^ 
If  Tis  wrong,  my  Christ!  punish  but  me. 


Let  my  mother,  0 Jesus!  be  blameless; 

Let  me  suffer  for  her  if  You  blame. 

Her  pure  mother’s  heart  knew  no  better 
When  she  taught  me  to  love  the  pure  name. 


0 Christ!  of  Thy  beautiful  Mother 

Must  I hide  her  name  down  in  my  heart? 
But,  ah!  even  there  you  will  see  it — 

With  Thy  Mother’s  name  how  can  I part? 


On  Thy  name  all  divine  have  I rested 
In  the  days  when  my  heart-trials  came; 
Sweet  Christ,  like  to  Thee  I am  human, 
And  I need  Mary’s  pure  human  name. 


The  Immaculate  Conception.  447 

I 

Did  I hear  a voice?  or  was  I dreaming? 

I heard — or  I sure  seemed  to  hear — 

‘^Who  blames  you  for  loving  My  Mother 
Is  wronging  my  heart — do  not  fear. 


am  human,  e’en  here  in  My  heavens, 
What  I was  I am  still  all  the  same; 

And  I still  love  My  beautiful  Mother — ^ 
And  thou,  priest  of  Mine,  do  the  same.’' 


I was  happy — ^because  I am  human — 

And  Christ  in  the  silences  heard 
‘‘Our  Father,”  “Hail  Mary,”  “Our  Father,” 
Murmured  faithfully  word  after  word. 

^ ^ H:  4c 

Swept  the  beautiful  0 Salutaris 
Down  the  aisles — did  the  starred  statue  stir? 
Or  was  my  heart  only  a-dreaming 
When  it  turned  from  her  statue  and  her? 


The  door  of  a white  tabernacle 
Felt  the  touch  of  the  hand  of  the  priest — 
Did  he  waken  the  Host  from  its  slumbers 
To  come  forth  and  crown  the  high  Feast? 


448  The  Immaculate  Conception. 

To  come  forth  so  strangely  and  silent,* 

And  just  for  a sweet  little  while, 

And  then  to  go  hack  to  its  prison. 

Thro’  the  stars — did  the  sweet  statue  smile? 


I knew  not;  but  Mary,  the  Mother, 

I think,  almost  enyied  the  priest — 

He  was  taking  her  place  at  the  altar — 
Did  she  dream  of  the  days  in  the  East? 


When  her  hands,  and  her’s  only,  held  Him, 

Her  Child,  in  His  waking  and  rest. 

Who  had  strayed  in  a love  that  seemed  wayward 
This  eve  to  this  shrine  in  the  West, 


Did  she  dream  of  the  straw  of  the  manger 
When  she  gazed  on  the  altar’s  pure  white? 
Did  she  fear  for  her  Son  any  danger 
In  the  little  Host,  helpless,  that  night? 


No  I no!  she  is  trustful  as  He  is— 

What  a terrible  trust  in  our  race  I 
The  Divine  has  still  faith  in  the  human— 
What  a story  of  infinite  grace! 


The  Immaculate  Conception. 


449 


Tantum  Ergo,  high  hymn  of  the  altar 
That  came  from  the  heart  of  a saint, 

Swept  triumph-toned  all  through  the  temple— 
Did  my  ears  hear  the  sound  of  a plaint? 


’Neath  the  glorious  roll  of  the  singing 
To  the  temple  had  sorrow  crept  in? 
Or  was  it  the  moan  of  a sinner? 

0 beautiful  Host  I wilt  Thou  win 


In  the  little  half-hour’s  Benediction 
The  heart  of  a sinner  again? 

And,  merciful  Christ,  Thou  wilt  comfort 
The  sorrow  that  brings  Thee  its  pain. 


Came  a hush,  and  the  Host  was  uplifted. 
And  It  made  just  the  sign  of  the  cross 
O’er  the  low-bended  brows  of  the  people^ 
0 Host  of  the  Holy!  Thy  loss 


To  the  altar,  and  temple,  and  people 

Would  make  this  world  darkest  of  night; 

And  our  hearts  would  grope  blindly  on  through  ib 
For  our  love  would  have  lost  all  its  light. 


450 


The  Immaculate  Conception. 


Laudate^  what  thrilling  of  triumph! 

Our  souls  soared  to  God  on  each  tone; 
And  the  Host  went  again  to  Its  prison, 
For  our  Christ  fears  to  leave  us  alone. 


Blessed  priest!  strange  thou  art  His  jailor! 

Thy  hand  holds  the  beautiful  key 
That  locks  in  His  prison  love’s  Captive, 

And  keeps  Him  in  fetters  for  me. 

* * * <1 

’Twas  over — I gazed  on  the  statue — ' . 

^^Our  Father,”  ^^Hail  Mary”  still  came; 
And  to-night  faith  and  love  cannot  help  it, 

I must  still  pray  the  same — still  the  same. 

Written  at  Loyola  College,  Baltimore,  on  the 
December  8,  1880. 


FIFTY  YEARS  AT  THE  ALTAR. 


“To  Rev.  Father  E.  Sourin,  S.J.,  from  A.  J.  Ryan;  first,  in  memory  ot 
some  happy  hours  passed  in  his  company  at  Loyola  College,  Baltimore ; 
next,  in  appreciation  of  a character  of  strange  heautifulness,  known  oj 
God,  hut  hidden  from  men ; and  last,  but  by  no  means  least,  to  test  and 
tempt  his  humility  in  the  (to  him)  proud  hour  of  the  fiftieth  anniversarj 
of-  his  ordination.” 

To-day — fifty  years  at  the  altar — 

Thou  art,  as  of  old,  at  thy  post! 

Tell  us,  0 chasubled  soldier! 

Art  weary  of  watching  the  Host? 

Fifty  years — Christ’s  sacred  sentry. 

To-day  thy  feet  faithful  are  found 
When  the  cross  on  the  altar  is  blessing 
Thy  heart  in  its  sentinel-round. 

The  beautiful  story  of  Thabor 
Fifty  years  agone  thrilled  thy  young  heart-, 

When  wearing  white  vestments  of  glory. 

And  up  the  ^‘high  mountain  apart.” 

In  the  fresh,  glowing  grace  of  thy  priesthood, 

Thou  didst  climb  to  the  summit  alone., 

While  the  Feast  of  Christ’s  Transfiguration 
Was  a sweet  outward  sign  of  thy  own. 


(451) 


452 


Fifty  Years  at  ike  AUar. 


Old  priest!  on  the  slope  of  the  summit 
Did  float  down  and  fall  m thine  ear 
The  strong  words  of  weak-hearted  Peter: 

‘^0  Lord,  it  is  good  to  be  here  I 
Thy  heart  was  stronger  than  Peter’s, 

And  sweeter  the  tone  of  thy  prayer; 

’Twas  Calvary  thy  young  feet  were  climbing, 
And  old — thou  art  still  standing  there. 

For  you,  as  for  him,  on  bright  Thabor, 
Forever  to  stay  were  not  hard ; 

But  when  Calvary  girdles  the  altar. 

And  garments  the  Eucharist’s  guard 
With  sacriflce  and  with  its  shadows — 

To  keep  there  forever  a feast 
Is  the  glory  and  grace  of  the  human — 

The  altar,  the  cross,  and  the  priest. 

The  cruciflx’s  wardens  and  watchers. 

Like  Him,  must  be  heart  sacriflced — 

The  Christ  on  the  crucifix  lifeless 

For  guard  needs  a brave  human  Christ. 

To  guard  Him  three  hours — what  a glory! 

With  sacrifice  splendors  aflame! 

Three  hours — and  He  died  on  His  Calvary — 
How  long  hast  thou  lived  for  His  name? 


Fifty  Years  at  the  Aliar^ 


453 


^ Half  a century/^  cries  out  thy  crucifix^ 

Binding  together  thy  beads; 

His  look,  like  thy  life,  lingers  in  it, 

A light  for  men’s  souls  in  their  needs. 

Old  priest!  is  thy  life  not  a rosary? 

Fiye  decades  and  more  have  been  said, 

In  thy  heart  the  warm  splendors  of  Thabor 
Beneath  the  white  snows  of  thy  head! 

Fifty  years  lifting  the  chalice — 

Ah,  ’tis  Life  in  this  death-darkened  land! 

Thy  clasp  may  be  weak,  but  the  chrism, 

Old  priest!  that  anointed  thy  hand 
Is  as  fresh  and  as  strong  in  its  virtue 
As  in  the  five  decades  agone 
Thy  young  hands  were  touched  with  its  unction, 
And  thy  vestments  of  white  were  put  on. 

Fifty  years!  Every  day  passes 
A part  of  one  great,  endless  feast. 

That  moves  round  its  orbit  of  Masses, 

And  hath  nor  a West  nor  an  East; 

But  everywhere  hath  it  pure  altars, 

At  each  of  its  altars  a priest 
To  lift  up  a Host  with  a chalice 

Till  the  story  of  grace  shall  have  ceased. 


454 


Fifty  Years  at  the  Altar, 


Fifty  years  in  the  feasf  s orbit, 

Nearly  tv^o  thousands  of  days: 

Fifty  years  pries^  in  the  priesthood, 

Fifty  years  lit  with  its  rays — 

Lit  with  them  but  to  reflect  them 
When  the  adorers’  throngs  pass 
Out  of  thy  life  and  its  glory 

Shining  each  day  from  thy  Mass. 

Half  of  a century’s  service! 

Wearing  thy  cassock  of  black 
O’er  thy  camps,  and  thy  battles,  and  triumphs! 

Old  soldier  of  Jesus!  look  back 
To  the  day  when  thou  kissed  thy  first  altar 
In  love  with  youth’s  fervor  athrill. 

From  the  day  when  we  meet  and  we  greet  thee, 
So  true  to  the  old  altar  still. 

Fifty  long  years!  what  if  trials 
Did  oftentimes  darken  thy  way — 

They  marked,  like  the  shadows  on  dials. 

Thy  soul’s  brightest  hour  every  day. 

The  sun  in  the  height  of  his  splendor. 

By  the  mystical  law  of  his  light, 

O’er  his  glories  flings  vestments  of  shadows, 
And,  sinking,  leaves  stars  to  the  night 


Fifty  Years  at  the  Altar. 


455 


Old  priest!  with  the  heart  of  a poet 

Thou  hast  written  sweet  stanzas  for  marj; 

Thy  life,  many  versed,  is  a poem 
That  puzzles  the  art  of  the  pen; 

The  crucifix  wrote  it  and  writes  it— 

A scripture  too  deep  for  my  ken; 

A record  of  deeds  more  than  sayings — 

Only  God  reads  it  rightly;  and  then 

My  stanzas  are  just  like  the  shadows 
That  follow  the  sun  and  his  sheen, 

To  tell  to  the  eye  that  will  read  them 
Where  the  purest  of  sunshine  has  been. 

Thy  life  moves  in  mystical  eclipse. 

All  hidden  from  men  and  their  sight; 

We  look,  but  we  see  but  its  surface, 

But  God  sees  the  depth  of  its  light. 

Twenty-five  years!  highest  honors 

Were  thine — high  deserved  in  the  world: 

Dawned  a day  with  a grace  in  its  flashing 
O’er  thy  heart  from  a standard  unfurled. 

Whose  folds  bore  the  mystical  motto: 

To  the  greater  glory  of  God ! ” 

And  somehow  there  opened  before  thee 
A way  thou  hadst  never  yet  trod. 


45fi 


Fifty  Years  at  the  AUar. 


Twenty-fiye  years — still  a private 
In  files  where  the  humblest  and  last 
Stands  higher  in  rank  than  the  highest 
Of  those  who  are  passing  or  passed; 
Twenty-five  years  in  the  vanguard, 

Whose  name  is  the  spell  of  their  strength. 
The  light  of  the  folds  of  whose  standard 
Lengthens  along  all  the  length 

Of  the  march  of  the  Crucified  Jesus. 

Loyola  was  wiser  than  most 
In  claiming  for  him  and  his  soldiers 
The  name  of  the  Chief  of  the  host; 

His  name,  and  his  motto,  and  colors 
That  never  shall  know  a defeat, 

Whose  banner,  when  others  are  folded, 

Shall  never  float  over  retreat. 

To-day  when  the  wind  wafts  the  wavelets 
To  the  gra)^  altar  steps  of  yon  shore. 

Each  wearing  an  alb  foam-embroidered. 

And  kneeling,  like  priests,  to  adore 
The  God  of  the  land — I will  mingle 
My  prayers,  aged  priest!  with  the  sea, 
While  God,  for  thy  fifty  years^  priesthood, 
Will  hear  thy  prayers  whispered  for  me 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  DEATHLESS  VOICE. 


^Twas  the  dusky  Hallowe’en — 
Hour  of  fairy  and  of  wraith. 

When  in  many  a dim-lit  green, 
’Neath  the  stars’  prophetic  sheen. 
As  the  olden  legend  saith, 

All  the  future  may  be  seen, 

And  when — an  older  story  hath — 
Whate’er  in  life  hath  ever  been 
Loveful,  hopeful,  or  of  wrath, 
Cometh  back  upon  our  path. 

I was  dreaming  in  my  room, 

’Mid  the  shadows,  still  as  they  ; 
Night,  in  veil  of  woven  gloom. 

Wept  and  trailed  her  tresses  gray 
O’er  her  fair,  dead  sister — Day. 

To  me  from  some  far-away 
Crept  a voice — or  seemed  to  creep-^ 
^s  a wave-child  of  the  deep, 
Frightened  by  the  wild  storm’s  roar 
Creeps  low-sighing  to  the  shore 
Very  low  and  very  lone 
Came  the  voice  with  song  of  moan  , 
This,  weak-sung  in  weaker  word. 

Is  the  song  that  night  I heard  : 


4:58 


The  Song  of  the  Deathless  Yoice. 


How  long  ! Alas,  how  long  ! 

How  long  shall  the  Celt  chant  the  sad  song  of  hope. 

That  a sunrise  may  break  on  the  long  starless  night 
of  our  past  ? 

How  long  shall  we  wander  and  wait  on  the  desolate 
slope 

Of  Tabors  that  promise  our  Transfiguration  at  last  ? 

How  long,  0 Lord  ! How  long  ! 

How  long,  0 Fate  ! How  long  ! 

How  long  shall  our  sunburst  reflect  but  the  sunset  of 
Eight, 

When  gloaming  still  lights  the  dim  immemorial 
years  ? 

How  long  shall  our  harp^s  strings,  like  winds  that  are 
wearied  of  night, 

Sound  sadder  than  meanings  in  tones  all  a-trembling 
with  tears  ? 

How  long,  0 Lord  ! How  long  ! 

How  long,  0 Eight  ! How  long  ! 

How  long  shall  our  banner,  the  brightest  that  ever  did 
flame 

In  battle  with  wrong,  droop  furled  like  a flag  o^er  a 
grave  ? 

How  long  shall  we  be  but  a nation  with  only  a name. 

Whose  history  clanks  with  the  sounds  of  the  chains 
that  enslave  ? 

How  long,  0 Lord  ! How  long  ! 

How  long  ! Alas,  how  long  ! 

How  long  shall  our  isle  be  a Golgotha,  out  in  the  sea. 


The  Song  of  the  Deathless  Voice. 


459 


With  a cross  in  the  dark  ? Oh,  when  shall  onr  Good 
Friday  close  ? 

How  long  shall  thy  sea  that  beats  round  thee  bring  only 
to  thee 

The  wailings,  0 Erin  ! that  float  down  the  waves  of 
thy  woes  ? 

How  long,  0 Lord  ! How  long  ! 

How  long  ! Alas,  how  long  ! 

How  long  shall  the  cry  of  the  wronged,  0 Freedom  ! 
for  thee 

Ascend  all  in  vain  from  the  valleys  of  sorrow  below  ? 

How  long  ere  the  dawn  of  the  day  in  the  ages  to  be. 

When  the  Celt  will  forgive,  or  else  tread  on  the  heart 
of  his  foe  ? 

How  long,  0 Lord  ! How  long  ! 

Whence  came  the  voice  ? Around  me  gray  silence  fall ; 

And  without  in  the  gloom  not  a sound  is  astir  ^neath 
the  sky  ; 

And  who  is  the  singer  ? Or  hear  I a singer  at  all  ? 

Or,  hush  ! Is^t  my  heart  athrill  with  some  deathless 
old  cry  ? 

Ah  ! blood  forgets  not  in  its  flowing  its  forefathers^ 
wrongs — 

They  are  the  heart’s  trust,  from  which  we  may  ne’er 
be  released  ; 

Blood  keeps  in  its  throbs  the  echoes  of  all  the  old  songs. 

And  sings  them  the  best  when  it  flows  thro"  the 
heart  of  ^ priest. 


460  The  Song  of  the  Deathless  Vbw^. 

Am  I not  in  my  blood  as  old  as  the  race  whence  I 
sprung  ? 

In  the  cells  of  my  heart  feel  I not  all  its  ebb  and  its 
flow  ? 

And  old  as  our  race  is,  is  it  not  still  forever  as  young. 

As  the  youngest  of  Celts  in  whose  breast  Brings  love 
is  aglow  ? 

The  blood  of  a race  that  is  wronged  beats  the  longest 
of  all ; 

Bor  long  as  the  wrong  lasts,  each  drop  of  it  quivers 
with  wrath  ; 

And  sure  as  the  race  lives,  no  matter  what  fates  may 
befall. 

There’s  a Voice  with  a Song  that  forever  is  haunting 
its  path. 


Aye,  this  very  hand  that  trembles  thro’  this  very  line. 
Lay  hid,  ages  gone,  in  the  hand  of  some  forefather 
Celt, 

With  a sword  in  its  grasp,  if  stronger,  not  truer  than 
mine, 

And  I feel,  with  my  pen,  what  the  old  hero’s 
sworded  hand  felt — 


The  heat  of  the  hate  that  flashed  into  flames  against 
wrong. 

The  thrill  of  the  hope  that  rushed  like  a storm  on 
the  foe  ; 


The  Song  of  the  Deathless  Voice. 


46 


And  the  sheen  of  that  sword  is  hid  in  the  sheath  of  the 
song 

As  sure  as  I feel  thro^  my  veins  the  pure  Celtic 
blood  flow. 

The  ties  of  our  blood  have  been  strained  o’er  thousands 
of  years. 

And  still  are  not  severed,  how  mighty  soever  the 
strain  ; 

The  chalice  of  time  overflows  with  the  streams  of  our 
tears. 

Yet  just  as  the  shamrocks,  to  bloom,  need  the  clouds 
and  their  rain. 

The  Faith  of  our  fathers,  our  hopes,  and  the  love  of 
our  isle 

Need  the  rain  of  our  hearts  that  falls  from  our  grief- 
clouded  eyes. 

To  keep  them  in  bloom,  while  for  ages  we  wait  for  the 
smile 

Of  Freedom,  that  some  day — ah  ! some  day  ! shall  light 
Erin’s  skies. 

Our  dead  are  not  dead  who  have  gone,  long  ago,  to 
their  rest ; 

They  are  living  in  us  whose  glorious  race  will  not 
die — 

Their  brave  buried  hearts  are  still  beating  on  in  each 
breast 

Of  the  child  of  each  Celt  in  each  clime  ’neath  the 
inflnite  sky. 


462  The  Song  of  the  Deathless  Yoiee. 


Many  days  yet  to  come  may  be  dark  as  the  days  that 
are  past. 

Many  voices  may  hush  while  the  great  years  sweep 
patiently  by ; 

But  the  voice  of  our  race  shall  live  sounding  down  to 
the  last. 

And  our  blood  is  the  bard  of  the  song  that  never 
shall  die. 


TO  MR,  AND  MRS.  A.  M.  T. 


Just  when  the  gentle  hand  of  spring 

Came  fringing  the  trees  with  bud  and  leaf. 
And  when  the  blades  the  warm  suns  bring 
Were  given  glad  promise  of  golden  sheaf  ; 
Just  when  the  birds  began  to  sing 
Joy  hymns  after  their  winter ^s  grief, 

I wandered  weary  to  a place  ; 

Tired  of  toil,  I sought  for  rest. 

Where  Nature  wore  her  mildest  grace — 

I went  where  I was  more  than  guest. 
Strange,  tall  trees  rose  as  if  they  fain 
Would  wear  as  crowns  the  clouds  of  skies  ; 
The  sad  winds  swept  with  low  refrain 

Through  branches  breathing  softest  sighs  ; 
And  o^er  the  field  and  down  the  lane 
Sweet  fiowers,  the  dreams  of  Paradise, 
Bloomed  up  into  this  world  of  pain. 

Where  all  thaPs  fairest  soonest  dies  ; 

And  ^neath  the  trees  a little  stream 
Went  winding  slowly  round  and  round. 
Just  like  a poePs  mystic  dream. 

With  here  a silence,  there  a sound. 

The  lowly  ground,  beneath  the  sheen 
Of  March  day  suns,  now  dim,  now  bright. 
Now  emeralds  of  golden  green 
In  hashing  or  in  fading  light ; 

And  here  and  there  throughout  the  scene 
The  timid  wild  fiowers  met  the  sight. 


464 


To  Mr,  and  Mrs,  A,  M,  T, 


While  over  all  the  sun  and  shade 
Swept  like  a strangely  woven  veil. 
Folding  the  flowers  that  else  might  fade, 
Guarding  young  rosebuds  from  the  gale. 
And  blossoms  of  most  varied  hue 
Bedecked  the  forest  everywhere. 

While  valleys  wore  the  robes  of  blue. 

Bright  woven  by  the  violets  fair  ; 

And  there  was  gladness  all  around  ; 

It  was  a place  so  fair  to  see. 

And  yet  so  simple  — there  I found 
How  sweet  a quiet  home  may  be. 

Four  children — and  thro^  all  the  day 

They  flung  their  laughter  o’er  the  place  ; 
Bright  as  the  flowers  in  happy  May, 

The  children  shed  a sweet  pure  grace 
Around  this  quiet  home,  and  they 
To  father  and  to  mother  brought 
The  smiles  of  purest  love  unsought ; 

It  was  a happy,  happy  spot. 

Too  dear  to  be  fore’er  forgot. 

Farewell,  sweet  place  ! I came  as  guest ; 
From  toil,  in  thee  I found  relief, 

I found  in  thee  a home  and  rest  — 

But,  ah  ! the  days  are  far  too  brief. 

Farewell  ! I go,  but  with  me  come 
Sweet  memories  that  long  will  last ; 

I’ll  think  of  thee  as  of  a home 
That  stands  forever  in  my  past. 


TO  VIRGINIA, 


On  Her  Birthday. 

Your  past  is  past  and  never  to  return. 

The  long  bright  yesterday  of  life’s  first  years. 
Its  days  are  dead — cold  ashes  in  an  urn. 

Some,  held  for  you  a chalice  for  your  tears. 
And  other  days  strewed  flowers  upon  your  way* 
They  all  are  gone  beyond  your  reach. 

And  thus  they  are  beyond  my  speech. 

I know  them  not,  so  that  your  first  gone  times 
To  me  unknown,  lie  far  beyond  my  rhymes. 

But  I can  bless  your  soul  and  aims  to-day. 

And  I can  ask  your  future  to  be  sweet. 

And  I can  pray  that  you  may  never  meet 
With  any  cross,  you  are  too  weak  to  bear. 
Virginia,  Virgin  name,  and  may  you  wear 
Its  virtues  and  its  beauties,  fore’er  and  fore’er, 

I breathe  this  blessing,  and  I pray  this  prayer. 


Go,  words  of  mine  ! and  if  you  live 
Only  for  one  brief,  little  day ; 

If  peace,  or  joy,  or  cairn  you  give 
To  any  soul ; or  if  you  bring 
A something  higher  to  some  heart, 

I may  come  back  again  and  sing 
Songs  free  from  all  the  arts  of  Art. 

^ Air  am  J,  Ryan. 


POSTHUMOUS  POEMS. 

(Copyrighted  1896  by  P.  J.  Kenedy.) 


IN  REMEMBRANCE. 


the  eclipses  of  your  soul,  and  when  you  cry 
0 God  ! give  more  of  rest  and  less  of  night, 
My  words  may  rest  you  ; and  mayhap  a light 
Shall  flash  from  them  bright  o’er  thy  spirit’s  sky  ; 
Then  think  of  me  as  one  who  passes  by. 

A few  brief  hours — a golden  August  day. 

We  met,  we  spake — I pass  fore’er  away. 

Let  ev’ry  word  of  mine  be  golden  ray 
To  brighten  thy  eclipses  ; and  then  wilt  pray 
That  he  who  passes  thee  shall  meet  thee  yet 
In  the  “ Beyond’^  where  souls  may  ne’er  forget. 

Abkajc  <r . 


A REVERIE. 


0 SoKGS  I said  : 

Stop  sounding  in  my  soul 

Just  for  a little  while  and  let  me  sleep. 
Eesting  my  head  on  the  breast 
Of  Silence  but  the  rhythmic  roll 
Of  a thousand  songs  swept  on  and  on. 
And  a far  Voice  said  : 

When  thou  art  dead 
Thy  restless  heart  shall  rest/’ 

And  the  songs  will  never  let  me  sleep. 

1 plead  with  them  ; but  o’er  the  deep 
They  still  will  roll 

On,  and  on,  and  on. 

Their  music  never  gone. 

Ah  ! world-tired  soul  ! 

Just  for  a little  while. 

Just  like  a poor,  tired  child 
Beneath  its  Mother’s  smile — 

Only  to  fall  asleep  ! 

Silence  ! be  mother  to  me  ! 

But— No  ! No  ! No  ! 

The  waves  will  ebb  and  flow. 

I wonder  is  it  best 
To  never,  never  rest 

Down  on  the  shores  of  this  strange 
Below  ? 


A.  J.  Ryan^. 


ONLY  A DREAM. 


Only  a Dream  ! 

It  floated  thro^ 

The  sky  of  a lonely  sleep 
As  floats  a gleam 

Athwart  the  Blue 
Of  a golden  clouded  Deep. 

Only  a Dream  ! 

I calmly  slept. 

Meseems  I called  a name  ; 

I woke  ; and^  wakings  I think  I wept 
And  called — and  called  the  same. 

Only  a Dream  ! 

Graves  have  no  ears  ; 

They  give  not  back  the  dead  ; 

They  will  not  listen  to  the  saddest  tears 
That  ever  may  be  shed. 

Only  a Dream  ! 

Graves  keep  their  own ; 

They  have  no  hearts  to  hear  ; 

But  the  loved  will  come 
From  their  Heaven-Home 
To  smile  on  the  sleeper’s  tear. 

Abram  J.  Kyan. 


THE  POET 


The  Poet  is  the  loneliest  man  that  lives  ; 

Ah  me  ! God  makes  him  so — 

The  sea  hath  its  ebb  and  flow. 

He  sings  his  songs — but  yet  he  only  gives 
In  the  waves  of  the  words  of  his  art 
Only  the  foam  of  his  heart. 

Its  sea  rolls  on  forever,  evermore. 

Beautiful,  vast,  and  deep  ; 

Only  his  sTialloioest  thoughts  touch  the  shore 
Of  Speech  ; his  deepest  sleep. 

The  foam  that  crests  the  wave  is  pure  and  white 
The  foam  is  not  the  wave  ; 

The  wave  is  not  the  sea — it  rolls  forever  on  ; 

The  winding  shores  will  crave 
A kiss  from  ev’ry  wavelet  on  the  deep  ; 

Some  come  ; some  always  sleep. 


A.  J.  R. 


THE  CHILD  OF  THE  POET. 


The  sunshine  of  thy  Father’s  fame 
Sleeps  in  the  shadows  of  thy  eyes. 

And  flashes  sometimes  when  his  name 
Like  a lost  star  seeks  its  skies. 

In  the  horizons  of  thy  heart 
His  memory  shines  for  aye, 

A light  that  never  shall  depart 
Nor  lose  a single  ray. 

Thou  passest  thro’  the  crowds  unknown. 

So  gentle,  so  sweet,  and  so  shy  ; 

Thy  heart  throbs  fast  and  sometimes  may  grow  low  ; 

Then  alone 

Art  the  star  in  thy  Father’s  sky. 

’Tis  fame  enough  for  thee  to  bear  his  name — 

Thou  couldst  not  ask  for  more  ; 

Thou  art  the  jewel  of  thy  Father’s  fame, 

He  waiteth  on  the  bright  and  golden  shore  ; 

He  prayeth  in  the  great  Eternity 
Beside  God’s  throne  for  thee. 


Abeam  J.  Eyam. 


THE  POET  PRIEST. 


Not  as  of  one  whom  multitudes  admire, 

I believe  they  call  him  great ; 

They  throng  to  hear  him  with  a strange  desire  ; 
They,  silent,  come  and  wait. 

And  wonder  when  he  opens  wide  the  gate 
Of  some  strange,  inner  temple,  where  the  fire 
Is  lit  on  many  altars  of  many  dreams — 

They  wait  to  catch  the  gleams — 

And  then  they  say. 

In  praiseful  words  : ’Tis  beautiful  and  grand.’’ 
And  so  his  way 

Is  strewn  with  many  flowers,  sweet  and  fair  ; 

And  people  say  : 

How  happy  he  must  be  to  win  and  wear 
Praise  ev'ry  day  !” 

And  all  the  while  he  stands  far  out  the  crowd, 
Strangely  alone. 

Is  it  a Stole  he  wears  ? — or  mayhap  a shroud— 
No  matter  which,  his  spirit  maketh  moan  ; 

And  all  the  while  a lonely,  lonesome  sense 
Creeps  thro’  his  days — all  fame’s  incense 
Hath  not  the  fragrance  of  his  altar  ; and 
He  seemeth  rather  to  kneel  in  lowly  prayer 
Than  lift  his  head  aloft  amid  the  Grand  : 


The  Poet  Priest. 


473 


If  all  the  world  would  kneel  down  at  his  feet 
And  give  acclaim — 

He  fain  would  say  : Oh  ! No  ! No  ! No  ! 

The  breath  of  fame  is  sweet — but  far  more  sweet 
Is  the  breath  of  Him  who  lives  within  my  heart  ; 
God’s  breath,  which  e’en,  despite  of  me,  will  creep 
Along  the  words  of  merely  human  art ; 

It  cometh  from  some  far-off  hidden  Deep, 

Far-off  and  from  so  far  away — 

It  filleth  night  and  day.” 

Not  as  of  one  who  ever,  ever  cares 
For  earthly  praises,  not  as  of  such  think  thou  of  me. 
And  in  the  nights  and  days — Fll  meet  with  thee 
In  Prayers — and  thou  shalt  meet  with  me. 

A.  J.  Eya^^^. 


WIZT  PRAY  FOR  ME 9 


Wilt  pray  for  me  ? 

They  tell  me  I have  Fame  ; 

I plead  with  thee. 

Sometimes  just  fold  my  name 
In  beautiful  ‘‘  Hail  Mary^s 
And  you  give  me  more 
Than  all  the  world  besides. 

It  praises  Poets  for  the  well-sung  lay  ; 

But  ah  ! it  hath  forgotten  how  to  pray. 

It  brings  to  brows  of  Poets  crowns  of  Pride  ; 
Some  win  such  crowns  and  wear  ; 

Give  me,  instead,  a simple  little  Prayer. 

A.  J • P* 


The  living  child  of  a dead  Poet  is  like  a faintly  glowing 
Sanctuary  lamp,  which  sheds  its  rays  in  the  beautiful 
Temple  whence  the  great  Presence  hath  departed. 

Abram  J.  Kyah. 


